


Reach

by Menirva



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Deaf Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bane is sent on a mission by Ra's Al Ghul to eliminate a man who should have died long ago. It is a task that requires dedication, stealth, and a very talented sniper. However, the ordeal becomes much more than what he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The men were staring up at him. Bane was sure they thought of him as the devil. How else, they must whisper, how else could he endure such a heat without breaking sweat, without drinking even a sip of water in their presence? Bane only let the rumors grow. Fear was a powerful motivator, and they would not be with this militia long enough for it to turn against them. They did not need to know that the answers to their question were much simpler. This desert was nothing compared to the stifling, still air of the pit, and there he had gone days without more than a sip of water.

 

Let them believe what they would. He fed a letter of communication into the fire after reading its careful conscription. Their target was more clever than first thought. The men he had used to infiltrate the opposing forces were under suspicion, any move from them might be traced which could not be allowed for this task. They would need to make a move from the outside and let the information they had just received be their guide. He turned towards the leader of the militia they had joined with a temporary truce. The man looked like nothing, old and weathered, but Bane could begrudgingly admit that he had proven more intelligent than most.

 

"I need from you a sniper," he spoke to him calmly, then paused. "No, not simply a sniper. I will need the best you have. If you have none that you can trust to hit even the most remote target on every shot, then you will need to find one."

 

The captain listened carefully. He wasn't one to simply boast that his men were the best one could have. It led Bane to put a small measure of faith into the man. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked up at the sky.

 

"Not here," he finally barked out with a thick accent. He held up two thick fingers. "Two days. I will have him."

 

Hector—Bane found himself bothering to learn the man's name finally—had proven to be a man of his word. In two days’ span, the pair of men that had been sent out from their base of operations had returned. When their jeep rumbled up into the camp, Bane looked out from the canopy and could see a slighter man settled into the backseat, his arm wrapped casually around his rifle as he turned his head to survey the area.

 

Bane walked out to meet them, his boots sinking into the hot sand as the men piled out of the car. On closer inspection, the man was slender, his fierce blue eyes flicking from person to person to inspect them in turn. Those eyes froze when they reached him, eyebrows arched in curiosity. Bane waited for him to question it.

 

He was confused when no words were forthcoming. Instead, he saw him lift his hands and begin to move his long, slender fingers gracefully. It was unlike anything he had seen before; the fluid, precise movements were a dance. He had of course seen and used hand signals during a siege or battle, but this was something else entirely.

 

The man paused when it was clear he was not being understood. His eyes flickered with a deep annoyance.

 

"You have no interpreter?" The words were bit out roughly, the tone to them different from what Bane had heard before. It helped him finally realize what was occurring.

 

Hector shook his head. "I understood you had one with you."

 

The man watched Hector closely, surprising Bane when he then gave a shake of his head. His fingers still moved when he talked, as though he could not still them. "I was told be alone."

 

The captain gave a sharp look to the two flanking the man. One gave a hapless shrug.

 

"We were told to bring only him, sir."

 

"You were also expected to use common sense," Hector snapped sharply.

 

"I need no interpreter. Tell me where to shoot. I shoot." The man finally said, clearly tense over the situation and the attention aimed towards himself.

 

There was arguing, then, between the captain and the two men he had sent, both of whom were highly defensive as the man walked back to the jeep and pulled a worn canvas bag from it, slinging it over his shoulder.

 

Bane approached him, reached past him to pick up another rucksack.

 

"Come with me."

 

The man thumbed his finger against his mouth thoughtfully. "I can see your throat move, but without a set of these, friend, I cannot understand."  
  


Bane understood then. He had been lip reading. His new 'friend' was quite versatile. He gestured with his hand to follow and was met with a curt nod. Together, they left behind the pointless bickering and Bane entered his tent, flanked by the man whose eyes flick around the small, makeshift piece of solitude Bane had made himself.

 

It was sparse—only a cot, his books and crates of supplies. The man took it all in and settled himself on a crate of ammunition, balancing his rifle over his lap. The realization that this was the first person to enter this private dwelling Bane had created was a strange one, but it was needed; the fewer who knew of this plan, the better. He was reluctant to put trust into a stranger, but it was needed.

 

He sifted through a crate of supplies, searching for pen, paper, something to communicate with. He was met with an impatient clearing of the other man's throat. His hands moved.

 

"It will take forever. Sit. I have an idea."

 

Pushy. Bane could admit that he was curious, though. He abandoned his search to sit across from the man, his body sinking down onto another crate, making its boards creak quietly under his mass. They stared quietly a moment before the man spoke.

 

"I'm going to touch you."

 

It was the only warning he was given before there were hands suddenly brushing against his throat. Without it, the man would likely have been on the floor of his tent then with a snapped neck. As it was, Bane barely refrained. He was not touched, and no one was bold enough to take such a liberty as to put their hands on his throat, vulnerable enough on its own but also so close to his mask.

 

The man said nothing, his heavy eyes only lidding further in amusement, seeming to find whatever he saw written on Bane's face to be amusing. Then they closed in concentration. His hands shifted.

 

"This is how I learned to speak," he explained quietly, and it was only that admission that kept Bane still as fingers tapped then rested over the grate of his mask. Others tucked under his jaw, still others remained at his throat. "I felt people lips, their jaw, the vibrations in their throat, and I learned to mimic it like a bird. It is not quite the same without your mouth, but perhaps if I can feel your breath, we will manage. Speak to me."

 

Curiosity had always been Bane's undoing.

 

"What is your name?" he spoke out, feeling how Barsad's fingers studied him. There was a sudden quirk to his lips.

 

"Forgive me. I am Barsad. I suppose you are Bane. The men whisper of you," he smirked slightly, "but whispers mean nothing when I can still see their lips move. Are you the devil, friend? They seem to think it."

 

Barsad did not need his skills to discern the low chuckle that left him.

 

"I am what I am needed to be."

 

Barsad's head tilted, curious. "I suppose I am, as well. And now you need me for something skilled. I suppose you wish me to prove my worth?"

 

The shake of his head seemed to surprise Barsad. "Who would bring the devil a deaf sniper when he asks for the best were it not true?"

 

A low raspy noise leaves Barsad's throat, barely more than an exhale of breath. "Only a fool. The general is not the best of men, but he is no fool." His hands left Bane's throat a moment and they brushed over the muzzle of his rifle. "I am more than used to having to prove my worth. Your wisdom in the matter is refreshing. I will show you, anyway. Later. I enjoy showing off."

 

Bane's brow quirked in amusement at his honesty. His hands returned to his mask and throat, but this time he expected them.

 

"Tell me your plan. I will follow your lead."

 

Bane told him of where they would stake out, the timing, the obstacles. He attempted to speak slowly until Barsad's eyes flickered in annoyance.

 

"I am deaf. Not slow."

 

Bane shot him a look and Barsad only looked unrepentant until he spoke again.

 

"It will be only us. We cannot risk more."

 

"It should only be me, then."

 

Bane shook his head. "Only I know the true identity of this man, and only my firsthand view of his death will be accepted."

 

"I am to be trusted with my rifle. If I say a man has been killed with it, it has been done."

 

"My trust in you means nothing. They will trust only my eyes. It will be both of us."

 

Barsad looked disgruntled for only a moment. It cleared then, and his lips twisted into a smirk. "I suppose we will be getting very close to one another."

 

Bane's hand shot out to tightly grasp his wrist when his fingertips stroked over his throat in a way that had nothing to do with reading his words. Barsad did not startle, if anything, his eyes lidded further, calm until Bane flung his hand down sharply and left his own tent, the air suddenly stifling inside.

 

He did not see him again until the sun had set and the cold bite of the desert night had sent everyone to their own tents.

 

Almost everyone.


	2. Chapter 2

Barsad was standing casually by his tent, his body reclined slightly against a tent pole holding it secure. A cigarette dangled from between his lips and the smoke curled around his face as he breathed out, a slow drag of breath making the red ember at the tip glow brighter.

"If we are to work together, you will need to learn to speak my language. I will be better for stealth. As pleasant as it is to touch you, I cannot grab your throat each time we need to speak," Barsad said, and his fingers drew lines in the smoke surround his body, cutting trails into it as he signed his words. “I will teach you. I hope you are as clever as you look, friend, for I am a terrible teacher and we have no time to take things slowly.”

Bane dipped his head in acknowledgment. His brow arched after when he watched as Barsad slipped into his tent as though he belonged there.

“We will begin now.”

Bane wondered if perhaps the first phrase to be taught should be 'respect my personal space'.”

Instead, he found himself fumbling his thick fingers through the alphabet. He had not felt so clumsy since his days still growing into his limbs. Barsad dismissed the idea of going in any sort of logical alphabetized order.

“I will show you what you will need the most, and we will go from there; better some bad spelling than a miscommunication because you remember your Z's and not your R's and S's.” He sank back, leaning against supply crate. A cigarette dangled from his lip as he lazily twisted his fingers, repeating the motions far too quickly. He was a terrible teacher indeed, and when Bane managed to finally, clearly inform him of this, a smirk flashed across Barsad's lips.

“I may be, but you still must learn and complaining only wastes time.”

Finally, the aches of the day caught up with him and he called for a break. Barsad shrugged and ground out his cigarette against a crate lid.

“You are not so bad a learner. Most with your fingers sign like an ape, but you have a grace to your motions. What do you use your fingers for that requires such care?”

Barsad looked genuinely curious. Surely it was none of his business, but Bane was quite certain he had never heard the word 'grace' used for any of his actions. Without a word, he bent to reach under the cot and drew out a ball of red yarn made with soft cotton. It was not something he was ashamed of or that he purposefully kept hidden, but he knew it hardly befit his status as 'the devil,' and so he most often kept it under his cot for when he found himself with a rare moment of quiet. Barsad's head tilted and there was more curiosity in his eyes.

“You are a surprising man.”

_Not many would call me such._ Bane worked the letters out slowly with his fingers and Barsad scratched through his beard, his yawn making his jaw crack as he signed back, mercifully slowing down his usually quick motions by a hair.

_Surprising?_

Bane shook his head and signed back slowly. _A man._

Barsad's brow furrowed and he tugged off his vest. “I am not so certain it is such a wonderful thing to be at times, but you are certainly no beast. Goodnight.”

In the morning, Barsad was in the mess tent, shoveling down powdered eggs and drinking bitter coffee. When he realized that Bane had no intention of eating with the men, he pulled him to seclusion for more lessons.

_No sense in wasting time,_ Barsad was happy to inform him after he finished the last long pull of bitter liquid from his cup. He no longer reached for his throat. If Bane wanted to convey something, Barsad insisted he figure out from what he had learned from the previous evening. It was frustrating, more so when Barsad would click his tongue impatiently at points and insist he do it again.

In the days that lead up to their departure, Bane felt as though he understood now what school was like for children. Teaching himself from books had always been at a leisurely pace, there had been no reason to rush in the pit, and when Melisande had taught him to write, it had been much the same. Barsad assigned homework throughout the day when they were not together, became frustrated quickly, and Bane felt his eyes on him at a distance at almost all times. Barsad had not been lying; Bane could not imagine a worse teacher.

Bane wasn't sure why he felt as though he was enjoying it, then. Perhaps it was the individual attention. He was unused to being treated as a man by another man. Barsad so totally focused on him that he supposed he should be unnerved, but it seemed like a fitting trait for a sniper. He had hyper-focused on Bane, had him in his line of sight, and would not let him out of it.

_Eat with me, friend._ Barsad has stopped speaking with his mouth around him, and Bane was often lost at the quick hand motion. This phrase he recognized quickly, though. Barsad had repeated the gesture at every meal. He shook his head slightly, bringing his hands together for a moment and tugging them apart in a clear motion, used to denying him now.

Barsad only shrugged, taking a bite from a piece of fruit. His lips wrapped around the flesh of the banana and his teeth sank into it slowly. _You never eat with me._

_You never listen to me when I speak._

Barsad barked out a sharp laugh at his joke, swallowing down the bite of fruit. He wiped his hand with the back of his mouth. _You have a point, friend, but what I ask of you is possible._

_Not as possible as you think,_ Bane argued, and Barsad only shrugged.

_We will be out there for days, possibly, with one shelter, as little movement as possible. You must._

Bane did his best not to look surprised, disconcerted that the idea had not even fully occurred to him. He was used to being alone so often that he had not fully thought out the logistics of their forced company. There must have been something in his eyes, because Barsad's face softened, the tease to him leaving the edges of his lips. He wiped his hand on a napkin and touched the back of Bane's wrist for just a moment. _It cannot be so bad._

Bane did not know how to put into any language that it was certainly quite bad enough. It was weakness and one never enjoys exposing such a thing. That he did say, though, and Barsad reached to tug on his own ear before he responded.

_I know that well enough. That is why you make your weakness your strength, as we both did._

He had learned a bit about Barsad's past. Barsad was born deaf, and it was not long before he found his place with his mothers, a rifle in his hand almost before he could walk. He didn't need ears to aim, to focus, and, in fact, Barsad told him he considered it was what gave him an edge above others. He could not be distracted by his surroundings when all of his senses were aimed towards his target.

_I suppose you are right,_ Bane told him. It might not be such a bad thing to eat with him, eventually.

Their supplies were packed up—a jeep to get them to their destination, a driver to take it back and not return until signaled by a single flare. All other communications were terminated, no radios. If they were discovered in their nest, then they must look as though they were working alone, no other men around them. If they failed and were traced back to a larger company, their target could tunnel deeper into hiding, never to be exterminated.

Bane settled into the backseat of the jeep and Barsad piled in beside him, a quick grin flashing across his face while the driver busied himself at the wheel.

_You seem excited._

_I am always excited when I am given a challenge; are you not?_

Bane leaned back into the worn down seats and considered the question. _I suppose in a fight._

_Not planning a battle?_ Barsad turned more in the seat to face him. Their way of communicating meant that the rumble of the jeep around them and the snooping ears of the driver meant nothing. Privacy, in a public world. Bane found that he liked it, wondering if it was perhaps something he should teach her when they were reunited. It meant he only hesitated a moment before he shared more than he should.

_No. Planning is merely what is necessary. I am good at it, but it is not where my interests lie._

_And where do they lie, then?_

His mind flashed to soft brown waves of hair, fierce blue eyes and innocence wrapped up with inner power.

_Elsewhere._

The drive was long, vast expanses of sand that rose into dunes and dipped into nothingness. Bane found his hands made their way to his yarn soon enough, not caring if the driver saw. Barsad lounged back and smoked idly, his booted foot dangling over the edge of the seat as he watched. Bane's hands, wrapped in red yarn, went still when Barsad's foot made its way to his thigh. He fixed a lazy smile towards Bane, sucking in a lungful of smoke and blowing it out of the corner of his mouth towards the window.

_It's cramped, and I want a nap. Share._

Bane was glad his snort could not be heard. His arms ended up resting over Barsad's ankle as he slowly worked the yarn in his hands, looping it around a pair of needles. Soft, deep breathing could be heard under the rumbling of the jeep as Barsad's lidded eyes dropped lower with drowsiness. He squirmed back more, and Bane finally simply pulled his other leg into his lap, saving them both from bothering to discuss it. Barsad's fingers twitched and Bane wondered in amusement if it was akin to a mumble as the man hugged his rifle and slept.


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed a shame to wake him when they reached their destination, but Bane stretched over to shake his shoulder, watching deep, bleary blue flicker from confusion to focus before he shrugged off his touch and stumbled out into the sand on cramped legs. The place itself looked like nothing, only more desert and emptiness. It was cold and dark, night having come, and Bane could feel the chill of it against his skin. This seemingly innocuous place was where they belonged, though, and as soon as they had unloaded, the driver was off. Barsad rubbed his hands together and then against the back of his neck to warm himself.

_Without a fire, we will be freezing all of the time at night. I will steal your warmth,_ Barsad warned him as they worked to set up a small camp. It was nothing much, only a slanted area for shelter from the sun and to further camouflage them and their supplies settled in a tarp-protected cache. Barsad set to work immediately, cleaning his rifle on a spread out tarp. They were to take turns watching for any signs of life around them. They had no way of being certain when their target would approach, the time frame given could have been in as little as two days or as much as two weeks, but it was such a rare window of opportunity—a place an attack would never be suspected for a mark that lives shrouded in secrecy—that it cannot be missed.

_You might tell me who you are looking for, finally,_ Barsad told him before he carefully reassembled his rifle and set it up under the tarp. It was something Barsad did not truly expect an answer to. Bane had already told him that he would never be informed of who he was aiming for. In truth, it was safer for the man, even if his curiosity was clearly eating away at him.

Instead, Bane pulled out two cans of stew from their cache as he watched Barsad carefully aiming his scope to the darkness that extended past the dunes they had set up on. In the morning, with the sun overhead, there would be the faintest hint of a path in the desert there, but for now there was only nothingness to stare out into, the stars and moon overhead. It did not seem to bother Barsad; he set his scope as if he could already see the target, fussing and adjusting his rifle until he was satisfied finally and settled back with a sigh. He saw the can in Bane's hand and snatched it up with a grin.

_Thank you, friend. You will eat with me now, yes?_ He seemed almost excited, not in a way that made Bane feel like a curiosity or a sideshow freak, but as if he felt this was an important thing to see. Bane's fingers drummed over the lid of the can for a few moments, the noise so much louder in the quiet of the desert enclosing their encampment, before he lifted them in reply.

_Yes._

It was done with no fanfare or gasps or surprise. The cans are merely opened with the soft clicks of metal, and likewise his mask was lifted, just enough for him to eat and yet still have the vapors reach him. Barsad's eyes were locked onto his features, taking in the scars, the deterioration of his body. His hand flicked before he held out a spoon for him.

_Hello, friend._

Hello, indeed. They were in absolute silence, and yet they spoke throughout the night. It was its own strange sort of peace between two men who were waiting to kill another. He fixed the mask back and took the first watch. It was highly unlikely for their target to be moving at night, but an eye still needed to be kept out, just in case. Barsad did not argue it, only rolling back onto the tarp and shivering, scrunching his shoulders up to cover chilled skin around his neck, burying his hands under his arms. Bane suggested gloves, and Barsad untucked his hands only to inform him that he hated wearing them for both communication and wanting to always feel his finger on the trigger.

Barsad decided instead to make good on his threat. His back pressed against Bane’s side, stealing his warmth as he curled into a ball beside him to conserve his own. He was a leech, one that breathed softly and looked small and young when he scrunched further. How old was he? Bane could not help but let the small thought creep into his mind as he glanced down to see the rise and fall of his chest beside him. He had never wondered someone's age before. His own was long lost, and hers was counted by the shifting of the sun when he lived beneath the earth. Barsad would know his, though, and Bane found he wanted to know it, too. It was not his to ask. Instead, he busied his hands with yarn.

Barsad woke on his own before the crack of dawn. He grunted and nearly rolled off of the tarp into a face full of sand. Bane calmly reached a hand out to grasp his shoulder and prevent it.

_It is still cold._ It was signed with a slight waver to his hands, like he was still sleepy, and Bane nearly chuckled at the look of grump and complaint on his face.

_You act as though I can fix it,_ Bane answered, and Barsad neatly shrugged, stumbling off a short distance to relieve himself. Bane took his own rest, after. It was easier than he had thought it might be, to fall asleep in the presence of another, even with the sun beginning to slowly peek over the dunes.  When he awoke, it was too hot, sweat beading across his forehead, the tarp over them doing little to protect from the stifling heat. Barsad's finger's tapped across his shoulder in greeting, but his eyes did not leave the scope. He was far too focused for it, and Bane found himself with little to do but watch with him, to knit more. His meal was taken with little fuss and his own turn to watch was done with binoculars, ready to alert Barsad to his rifle at a moment’s notice.

Barsad was less than happy to have nothing to do. He spent most of the time rearranging the small cache to his own liking and stretching his legs out, pacing, but never going too far, so as to be ready when needed.

_I am used to doing this alone_ , he finally said, sitting back down beside Bane. _Alone, I am more focused; I do not feel the boredom itching under my skin. Talk to me._

He looked over before setting down his binoculars. _I must keep watch._

It was far too hot for what Barsad did next, how he slipped behind him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, his chest pressed tight to his back as he hands went to his throat, his mask, a touch he had thought he had felt the last of now that he had learned the alternative.

“Like this, then,” Barsad speaks, something Bane has not heard in days, and his voice lower, hushed against his ear.

“You taught me your language so you could be quieter,” he pointed out, lifting the binoculars back to his eyes to focus.

“I did. I feel it was important, but we can be quiet, the sun will set soon and I am restless.”

Bane relented. It did help pass the time. He did not have much to talk about, but Barsad asked questions, clever enough to know which ones were too invasive to be asked and yet still managing to pluck more information from him than most. It was still too hot, and he could feel the sweat between their bodies, dampening their clothes and making them stick together. As the sun dipped in the sky, it changed, though, the coolness drying them, Barsad pressing closer to his back to take his warmth.

“He will not come today,” Bane announced finally, setting down the binoculars. They would still keep an eye on the dark, but the chances of movement then were almost null.

“You are warmer than the tarp. I should stay here.”

A sharp, gasped out noise of surprise left Barsad when Bane reached back to deftly flip him over his shoulder, feet kicking out and scraping the roof of their shelter before he landed flat on his back, staring up at him. A sharp laughter was barked out and he reached back to pat over his thigh before he brought his hands back down.

_I suppose I outwore my welcome._

_You are as greedy as a leech. You would suck the warmth from me if I let you._

Barsad's lips twitched and there was a certain flick to his fingers, somehow more suggestive as he answered. _It is not the only thing I would enjoy sucking from you._

Bane's hands froze before he narrowed his eyes. _You are far too bold with your words._

_Maybe if I use them enough, I will get what I want._

_Something to pass the time._ Bane shook his head and broke eye contact with the other man. He was not going to simply be a bit of curious entertainment for him.

Barsad sensed what had been playful had turned colder than the air as it settled from the heat, and he rolled over onto his belly, peering up at him through his lashes. _Not something to only pass the time. I want you._

_Clearly._ He turned away from him then, not wanting to see anything else, certainly not the graceful slide of his fingers attempting to lure him in further. This was a mission, and this man needed to be nothing more than a tool. He reached to pick up his yarn and Barsad sat up, rubbing his hands over his own thighs to warm them before he checked his rifle again.

Bane watched him quietly for a moment before tying off the end of his knitting. He usually unwound it at this point, began again. The yarn was often only something to keep him occupied, not something to complete. Instead, he found himself holding the bundle out quietly for Barsad. He had looked too cold the night before.

Barsad looked at his outstretched hand, curious as he took the bundle of cloth in his hands. He stretched out the material in his hands. It was not much, just a scarf. It meant nothing to give up the yarn, only that he did not want him to be cold and therefore less alert.

A smile crept over Barsad's lips as he wrapped the scarf securely around his neck. His fingers trailed slowly over the soft yarn. _Thank you._

_It is nothing._

Barsad had the look of a man who didn't believe a word that was being spoken to him. Worse, Bane wondered if he was correct in the silent assessment. They ate together, after. Bane did not let himself be pulled into the conversation this time, chewing in silence and keeping his hand on his spoon. Barsad did not seem deterred. He only settled back after the meal, plucking one of the bullets strapped into his vest. He tucked the end of it between his lips and sucked slowly.

_I hate not being able to smoke._

Bane watched his lips wrap around the bit of metal, how the soft pink of his tongue peeked out slightly before he sucked on it. He decided that he hated it, too.


	4. Chapter 4

_Your turn to watch._

_Keep me warm during it._

_You already have my scarf._

_I do. Your body is warmer, still._

Bane lay down slowly, groaning at the slight protest of his body after being so still during the day while watching for their target. The ground felt chilled, and that was why he allowed Barsad to be so close, to stretch out on his belly and lie against Bane's body, his eyes looking out as he sucked thoughtfully on the bullet.

He slept, easier than it should have been again, warmer with another body beside him. It was still cool when he woke. Barsad was staring out in silence, the bullet from his mouth now between his fingers and being rolled around. Bane could see how his lips looked redder now, though.

The quiet wonder if they were warmer tugged at the edge of his still sleep-addled thoughts. Bane reached his chilled fingers out to find out, pressed his thumb against the smooth, warm curve and felt it tremble under the pad of it. It was a foolish choice, Barsad shivered at the cool touch but his eyes, they flared open. Bane could see the sky in them, bright, warmer than the night that surrounded them. Desire burned there, want. Both were foolish, dangerous things, things he had always avoided.

Barsad's tongue licked out and drew Bane’s thumb between his lips, a more dangerous action than when it was done with the bullet. They were scorching to his chilled fingers, and it sent a pulse of warmth to his core. Teeth bit lightly at his knuckle and Barsad's tongue slid over the pad of his thumb. His own hands went to Bane's chest to brace for a moment as he rose up to his knees on the tarp.

_Just a taste._ His hands skimmed enticingly down Bane's stomach, stopping at the buckle to his brace.

Just a taste. What harm could be done?  A scarf, just to keep warm. Meals eaten together, merely out of necessity. Barsad in his tent each night, only so that he may learn faster. The slope had seemed like nothing, just another dune in this endless desert, and Bane been caught unawares, had not even felt it when he had been dragged forward by its momentum and now he had fallen, was sinking.

Just a taste. He knew it wasn't true. Just like he knew it was not just a scarf, not just necessity that made him lift his mask for Barsad, not just lessons that had allowed him into his tent each night, but he let himself believe it, anyway. It was easier. His own fingers touched over Barsad's and Bane could see the white glint of his teeth when he grinned, a silent victory. Barsad’s fingers plucked open the belt, guided it out of the way before his pants were opened and he was drawn out.

Barsad did not give him time to second-guess. His hand wrapped around the base of his cock and Bane shivered, feeling the coolness in them from the night air.  His other fingers drew over the length of his cock slowly, exploring it, seeming to be memorizing the heated skin there, the way Bane's hips jerked slightly when he rubbed his thumb in a slow circle around his foreskin, how when he drew them down the underside of his cock, Bane's head tilted back, a moan leaving him.

Barsad's hand squeezed around him, making him look back again at the wicked curve of his lips before they were pressed against him. Slow kisses against his length with those heated lips warmed him quickly, sent that same heat through his body with each little suck that came, every small lick of his tongue sweeping across his skin. Just a taste.

Bane’s hands sunk into Barsad's hair and challenge met his eyes, his tongue peeked out and he licked a broad stripe up the underside of his cock, a pant leaving him before his lips curled around the head. He knew the challenge, what Barsad wanted; Bane as a willing and active participant. He was already crashing and burning, there was too much momentum as he fell down the slope.

His fingers tightened around the soft locks in his grasp. He pulled tight, reveled in the groan that vibrated through him, the pleasure that filled him as Barsad sucked him into his mouth, his tongue curling around him wetly. Barsad's hand stretched to shove under his shirt, skimming up thick muscle and to his chest, pressing flat there, bracing himself perhaps as he began to bob his head, taking Bane's cock again and again. Bane watched himself slide past those stretched lips, guided him down each time with a pull to his hair.

The cool air of the night felt stifling now. Barsad's breath was sucked up noisily through his nose and he groaned around him, his cheeks hollowing with a wet slurp, making sharp cheekbones stand out even further. Bane pulled him faster, too hot already, too much heat building when he looked at Barsad, how he took him into his mouth greedily. Bane could feel his need building up in response, drawing close.

He dragged Barsad up roughly in response to it, feeling the cool air surrounding his cock now, but Barsad's hands covered him, worked him eagerly, with encouraging twists of his wrist, his tongue flicking out over the head of him and warming him through until he came, the pull of it forcing the air out of his lungs, making him pull Barsad's hair sharply enough that it was sure to leave a welt on his scalp as his come streaked across those overheated lips, across the scruff of his cheeks. Barsad only closed his eyes contently, licking his lips to gather up the taste that he had wanted.

Bane felt a rush of near dizziness come over him as his head dropped back on the tarp. Barsad tucked his cock back in and wiped a hand over his face, cleaning it before his hand went back to his chest. Bane must have looked curious before Barsad's fingers tapped over him for a moment before he spoke.

“I cannot hear you, so I wanted to feel how I made your heart race.”

Presumptuous. Bane almost told him so, but he could already see in his mind how Barsad would only smirk at such a compliment. Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself rest more. In the morning, nothing was said, but there was satisfaction in Barsad's every movement, how he held his body, like he could still taste the salt of Bane's come in his mouth, could still feel him stretching his lips.  Bane found himself torn with irritation that he could not decide if he should snap the man's neck or tug him down to his knees to demand the treatment again.

The latter was decided when it was Bane's turn to watch again. When his hands went to the binoculars, Barsad's hands went to his dick, caressing him through the thick material.

“Let me again.” He pressed up against his back as he had the day before, but this time he clearly had no interest in conversation. They were keeping watch. They needed to be alert. The last thing that should be done was to take attention from their goal just to feel Barsad sucking him down greedily. Those were all things he argued to himself as Barsad wound his way around his body, his hands stroking down his thighs before reaching for his prize.

“Just a taste.” He said it with a smirk to his lips and Bane knew he had lost again to the sweet sounds of Barsad suckling at his cock, his head in his lap as Bane kept watch, the feeling of his mouth enveloping him, forcing himself to keep his eyes open as he spent himself between Barsad's lips, feeling how he swallowed around him and savored it. He was tucked back in deftly and Barsad settled beside him. Bane noticed suddenly that he was still wearing the scarf in the stifling heat. It had to be far too hot for such a thing.

He reached to touch his shoulder, tell him to remove it before he overheated when a glint caught his eyes. Barsad snapped his head towards it just as quickly. It was only a dot in the distance but he already moved down to his rifle, hands settling into place as he watched. Bane went back to his binoculars, focused them in the distance as they waited in silence until they could see the caravan. It looked like nothing much, but Bane knew better.  There were no tanks as Bane had seen traveling through the desert before, but security was only lessened slightly because it allowed for a more stealthy means of traveling. It was practical. Who would wait out here for days in the desert heat, who would know the path that had been secreted away so carefully? Their target thought he was safe.

He was wrong.

Time felt like it was moving too fast and too slow in a simultaneous rhythm. A line of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and was soaked into his shirt collar as he gripped the binoculars. The details of the caravan slowly came into view, trucks and jeeps mostly, armed men filling them. Barsad focused on the center, where the most important man would surely be protected. Bane knew better. It was why he needed to be here. This warlord had lived longer than most, had prospered because he did not follow in any man's footsteps but his own.  He was not in the center. He was not surrounded by armed men, tucked between them. He was the driver, innocuous looking as his hands gripped the wheel, so easy to miss.

But something was wrong. Bane furrowed his brow as he watched more jeeps pour into view. There were so many men surrounding him. Easily over twice the number that had been sent back to them via intelligence, and Bane could see artillery with them that had not been planned for at all. This convoy was to be small, three jeeps at the very most. Their plan after eliminating the target had been to evade the rest, fight off the small group if needed. This did not bode well. This, he was uncertain they would escape from even with planning.

He glanced down at Barsad as the smaller man focused into his scope. He did not seem deterred by the group there. Perhaps he trusted Bane too much, thought he would not tell him to take the shot if the risk was too great... But this would be their only chance. Years might go by and they would not receive another. Barsad was good, he was... different, but he was still expendable for the cause, as was Bane.

Bane reached out to touch Barsad's back, felt the tight muscle tensing further, but it was needed. He dragged his gaze from his scope.

_Second jeep. The driver._

The idea was met with a skeptical look, but Barsad did not argue further.  He dropped his gaze back to his scope and adjusted. Bane did not move, barely breathed though he knew it would not be heard. He only watched as Barsad did not move a muscle beyond his finger slowly curling just by the trigger, not on it yet, not quite. He watched with a maddening patience that Bane did not feel in the moment, not when this was their only chance, but he had asked for the best, Barsad was the best.

It was sudden. The curl of his finger slid straight to the trigger, not a single blink, no hesitation, just a slow steady squeeze of the trigger, the sudden sharp crack in the air of the bullet leaving the muzzle. He could see it from the binoculars, the sudden burst of blood in the air, the way the man slumped forward and the jeep swerved wildly. It was done but there was no time to feel relieved. Barsad was already hefting up his gun, preparing to run. He drew the flare gun in the air and fired, signaling their driver. It was a terrible risk, to give away their location, but the men below were panicking, rushing towards the jeep and not in their direction, not yet, and the driver needed to know to head to their rendezvous point.

They ran and the sand slowed their pace, trying to suck them down into it when speed was what was needed most. Their supplies were left, nothing that could be traced, only cans of food and their tarp. In the distance, the rumble of jeeps could be heard. The men had finally pulled themselves together and were hunting them. Barsad's eyes flicked over to him, his lips twisted into something that was almost a grimace, but there was excitement in his eyes, still. He enjoyed the chase as much as he accepted the danger in it. He was fast, but his rifle weighed him down. Bane knew telling him to leave it would be a waste of hand movement.

There was distance between them and their enemies, but Bane could hear them being closed in on. He wondered if Barsad could sense it, the rumbling under the sand. Surely he could feel the vibration through his boots. He did not look behind them. There were no shots fired. Were they too far to get a clean shot? No. They were wanted alive too much.

It was close. Their driver would be close, too. He could feel his own pace slowing, the chemicals in his mask being sucked in faster. Running was not something his body was designed for, not anymore. It was fast, quick, but in a fight, not to flee, and he felt himself flagging. He forced the burning in his back and thighs to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the steady thump of Barsad's boots pounding into the sand beside him, listening for the rumble of their own jeep as they were closed in on.

A shot fired. It cracked through the air, not at them, though, at their pursuers. The Jeep was ahead of them, just a blink of deep green in the distance, the glint of a gun from the driver, the shot meant to direct their attention towards him as he raced towards them.

It had the added effect of fire being opened against them. Shots rattled through the air, shouts as space between them closed further. Pain lanced through him suddenly, exploding into his arm as blood fanned out in front of him on the sand, kicked up and scattered by their feet. He gasped, pulling his hand up to clasp over his shoulder.

 Barsad's hand grabbed at him, shocking him back to clarity as the haze of pain threatened to make his vision ebb. He shook it away and ran forward. There were no boot falls in the sand next to him. No gasps for air close by, only the steady rasp of breath through his own mask.

The burst of Barsad's rifle was enough to make him turn his head as he ran. He had stopped. It was foolish. There were only 9 rounds left in his clip and far too many men.

“GO!” It was shouted roughly, barely heard over the spray of bullets. Even under pressure, even with no time to aim, to focus, Barsad hit each target. Not the men, their tires. Bane watched as they swerved out of control.

Then he watched the bullet that burst through Barsad's thigh, heard the strangled yell of pain as his rifle dropped.

He was too far, then, swooped in on by the vultures as Bane was finally caught up to their jeep, the driver shouting at him to hurry even as he was already beginning to drive away, fear in his eyes as Bane landed heavily into the passenger seat, his hand still holding his arm, blood seeping from the wound.

Bane looked out as they drove away. He could see him, a limp body being dragged away.

Everyone was expendable.


	5. Chapter 5

“So wounded, my heart.” The words were a soft whisper in the dark air as Talia dabbed a clean cloth over his shoulder, clearing the outside of the wound and inspecting the angry red edges of it for infection as she changed the bandages. He had woken to it, to her looking over him in his bed, not the cot and tent of before. The mission was completed, and they were in a village, miles away from what he had left behind.

It eased his heart to see her in the soft glow of the candle she had lit and placed beside the bed. Her fingers met his own, and he stroked over the soft skin of her wrist.

“It is nothing, habibti.”

She tended to him more, and he closed his eyes, allowed it even though they both knew it must turn back to business soon. Her father never allowed her to see him for long. He was 'excommunicated,' but apparently considered still useful enough to do the work others would not. He knew the only thing that kept Talia from him was that he himself had forbidden it. Even that was not enough; if she did not act as liaison, if she was never able to see him again, Bane knew she would break ties with her father and rush to him.

It was selfish to almost wish it would happen. He wanted her to stay, though, even when he longed to be by her side. She was safer, learning more there, and Bane wished for her to be strong. He would never be the reason she was held back, no matter how she might argue.

He sat up slowly on the bed. Pain ran through his arm. The mask could only take care of so many aches at once and this fresh one stood out. He stretched his arm out, though, so that she could finish, rolling soft, clean bandages over his shoulder and sealing them with the gentlest of kisses to the wrappings. Her fingers smoothed over his arm and his own reached to trail down her cheek.

“Is it completed?” she finally asked, and it was not just her father she was asking for. He could sense the tightness in her voice.

“It is. He is finally dead.”

“Good riddance.” Talia spit the words out viciously, her nails digging into his hand for a moment. The man had taken her mother’s life, had been responsible for her childhood in hell, and had been her own grandfather. It was a favor to the world, and the completion of a cycle to wipe him from the earth. He hoped that his careful act would one day put him back into Ra's Al Ghul's good graces enough that he would be accepted back.

Her head rested against his unwounded shoulder and she closed her eyes. “Thank you, friend.”

“It is nothing.”

Everyone was expendable. He repeated the words quietly in his mind and tried not to think of blue eyes, crisp in color but lidded and lazy, tried not to wonder if they were closed now for good.

“Not nothing. It is important. Beyond the vengeance my father wished for. My grandfather was a terrible man, the world is better without him.”

Bane nodded in agreement and she tilted her head up, resting her hands on his shoulder as she looked at him.

“Something is troubling you.”

Was he so transparent? With her, it seemed as if he could hide nothing.

“Nothing to be concerned over.” He used his good arm to wrap around her waist, pulling her body into his lap without warning. She made a noise of surprise and beat a fist against his chest.

“Do not manhandle me like a child!” she scolded, indignant, and Bane hoped that would be the last of it. Talia knew his tricks too well, though. Her hands came up to touch the coils of his mask, guiding his head down to face her. “Tell me.”

He should have known. He was quiet, still, for a moment longer. She waited until he was ready, more patient than her years.

“There was a man. He let himself be captured to allow my escape.”

Her eyebrow arched delicately, and he felt foolish suddenly to even mention it. How many had they both seen die before their very eyes? How much more blood did he have on his hands from others?

“I told you it was nothing.” He shook his head, ready to put it behind him.

“If it was nothing, it would not weigh on you… but why?”

“Why, indeed.” The words were almost muttered out, bitter. They made Talia's hands go still against him.

“Did you sleep with him?”

“ _That_ is certainly not something we will speak of, habibti.”  
  
“I am not a child, anymore, Bane.” She said it with a click to her tongue. She was right, though it hardly made him feel better to discuss it. Apparently, his quick denial told her all she needed to know. Her face looked troubled for a moment before it cleared.

"You feel guilt, because there was something between you.”

He opened his mouth, the denial on his tongue. On his tongue is where it stayed. He had fallen down a quick and slippery slope, and now when he closed his eyes he could still hear the pained scream falling from Barsad's mouth as the bullet burst through him.

“He was...” unique, entertaining, calm, skilled, peaceful, lustful, “...different. It does not matter. It is not my place to feel guilt, if I do. The mission is completed.”  
  
“Would you change it, now, if you could?”

“No,” Bane answered quickly. “I only wish it could be different.”

In the morning, she was gone, and he had a new mission. It led him away from the desert, and his memories were left with it. He worked for the league, but was never a part of it, always on the fringe, a tool, a monster, not a brother. His mind wandered on occasion to him, to the casual, easy acceptance he had found in the desert. It was not found again, not after Talia's father died and he was brought back to the league, not in any mission thereafter, be it in the league as he was made the figurehead of it, fighting in the Congo, securing mining contracts in West Africa, or the city sewers.

Finally, their plans culminated. He was close to seeing her again, even if it would only be for a brief instant. It was that tangible promise that made what he had to do now easier to cope with. He crouched down in the cargo hold of the plane. Mr. Wayne was there, in a battered heap. The drugs injected into him made consciousness a fleeting notion, something that swam in an out of his grasp until they reached their destination.

Home. It was their destination, and the thought sent a cold shiver through his body, made his face ache more than it had any right to with the medication constantly being breathed in, phantom pains from a once whole mouth and nose. His fingers drummed across his knee as he considered his former brother. The fight had been a disappointment, as a whole.  All that he had been training for, this was the man Ra's Al Ghul had thought could lead him, the man that was not a beast, who was supposed to be stronger than all of them, and it had been all too easy. It made him uneasy, as if he did not hold all of the pieces to this puzzle and so he could not see the smaller details.

He shook off the feeling. It hardly mattered, and he had learned long ago that dwelling on any past, good or bad, did nothing to change it. He stood, leaving Wayne broken in the corner of the cargo hold, and went to join the men.

“I will go down with him.”

It was not shown, but his words were a surprise. He had only shared the thought with Talia, and it had been met with a moment of hesitation and then strong approval. The pit held nothing for him, anymore. He would prove his own victory over it by going and leaving as he pleased, by delivering their former brother's fate to him in person.

He marched ahead of the group, who carried Wayne like it was a funeral procession. In truth, Wayne would live for many, many years to come, something that suited their tastes perfectly. Long after Gotham was cleansed, its golden child would be living in the hell of dark and dirt.

The maw of the pit was open in the distance, hungry. Bane had never seen it like this before. He had lost consciousness while being lifted from it. The light had hit his eyes and he had been blinded for days until he had adjusted. Now, he watched a light shone into it, knowing it would never reach the bottom, only the reflected scraps of light touched there.

Darkness was his alley, but he found himself opening his palm, stretching out his fingers to catch the warmth of the light there as he was fastened into a harness. He oversaw Wayne being lowered down, the grunt of agony that left him as he hit the wall and then the bottom. Bane was right behind him, taking a slow breath before he stepped forward into the open mouth, letting it swallow him whole, feeling the light disappear from his knuckles as he grasped his rope until he was devoured again.

He sat beside him and waited. The pit was a quieter place than it once was. Prisoners still scattered throughout it, huddled in the corners and watched their descent, but they knew the keepers of their hell, now. Few were down there that had not been ordered down by the league itself, only a handful remaining from the times of Talia's grandfather's rule in the area.

Wayne's eyes flew open, and he gasped as if returning back to life. Bane turned his attention back to him and away from the prison bars where they had wandered. He watched the confusion, the uncertainty, the resignation and then the anger as they all flashed across Wayne's face while he delivered Gotham's sentence to him, as well as his own. The whimper of pain, insult to injury, was not something he would bother with usually, but being back here, it brought up old memories in him. When he stared out at the barely there light trickling through the bars, it was hard to remind himself that he would be back in the sun soon enough, that he was not trapped down here once more, this time without his handful of innocence to keep him strong.

When he left the cell, he nodded to one of the men to stand guard there for now. He knew there was one familiar old soul in this hell, and as distasteful as it was, he needed to speak with him, to have him moved closer to the cell that had been chosen for Wayne—Bane's own old cell—so that should his injuries attempt to do him in he could be mended enough to live through the purge.

His boots squelched into the muck, and he glanced down and saw how the filth squeezed out of the grooves of their tread. It had once been his toes, the soles of his feet, forever filthy and scraped red from little pebbles and splinters of bone. He used to trade for cloth to bind up Talia's little feet to prevent the same for her as long as he could. Eventually, she had shaken her head stubbornly, refusing the extra luxury until her own feet were as rough and scratched as his own.

The doctor’s cell looked almost no different than when he had last left it. It was her cell. Punishment from Bane deemed when he left the pit, a constant reminder to the man of what his weakness had done. The door still hung off of the hinges, forever broken. There was a lump of bedding in the corner and bits of broken glass everywhere, the remainder of morphine bottles that were sent down rarely with supplies and then even rarer still, used on inmates. Most found its way to the doctor's veins. He was slumped down in the corner, his eyes glossed over.

Clearly, luck had been in the doctor's favor, and a shipment had been recent. He was drugged out of his wits. Bane bit back a distasteful noise as well as his own anger, reminding himself, not for the first time, that death was a kindness to this man, a coward too weak to end himself. He would live here for an eternity more. Instead, he grasped up handfuls of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. His head lolled back until his eyes focused, snapping to attention. There was haze, and then fearful recognition once the old fool saw past the mask.

“You—”  
  
“Do not dare hope that I have finally come to finish you, old man.”

There was a resignation in his eyes, a slump to his shoulders, despair that no drug could fully dull. “What do you want of me?”

“You will keep another alive. Another will make sure their cell remains locked, so I trust you will not fail me in this.” His words were the daggers that he intended for them to be. He could feel the flinch in him when they cut deep, the cautious, dizzy nod of his head. When he released his grip, the man could barely stand.  
  
“Go. There will be equipment there. You hardly need what you have here.” He spread his hands out in a sweeping gesture to include the broken bottles, the filthy blankets in the corner. “Your finery here will hardly be missed, I assume, and your new bedding will house the same vermin.”

The man rubbed over his balding head slightly as he wavered on his feet. “Not my bedding, just an old dog. He refuses to die. Would live in here, if I let him.”


	6. Chapter 6

Bane glanced over to the pile again. It did seem that there was perhaps a body under it, now that he inspected it more closely. He narrowed his eyes. What had been said just then had been meant to be in private. Too much attention called to this new prisoner would make the others curious, enough that he would be at risk of being ended before his time.

“Go.” He waved his hand at the doctor and stalked over to the pile. An old dog was an easy thing to take care of, but just in case he still had a few teeth and was waiting to bite from their conversation, he closed in the last few steps slowly, reaching forward to yank the blankets off quickly.

The emaciated body jerked in surprise, wide, blue, bloodshot eyes stared into nothing as his arms were jerked up to defend himself from Bane's oncoming attack. It did not come. Bane only stared back at the frail body, the filthy clothes and the ratty red scarf wrapped securely around his throat. It felt like an impossibility, but even then the horrible realization clicked into place. Of course they would not kill him, not when they could make him suffer.

And what better way to make him suffer in the name of their former leader than to throw Barsad into the hell of his own design?

Bane stared down at him, still holding onto the filthy bedding as Barsad let out a strange growl, something born of pain and anger, something that did not sound quite human. His hands, his fingers, they looked like they had been mangled, each digit broken and not quite healed right. It was a 'fitting' punishment for a sniper, one who once held long, graceful fingers and hands like lightening. Bane was sure he had been cast down as such; between them and the bullet through his thigh, his fate would have been sealed in the pit. Prey, something to use and to abuse. At his best, Bane knew Barsad would scrape by, hide away from the pit and learn from a distance. Injured, alone, and weakened, it was clear that hell had been particularly unkind to him.

When no attack came, his arms lowered cautiously. His fingers twitched, a nervous tic, and a ripple of pain crossed his features for it. Bane crouched closer. It would be kinder to kill him, to end this suffering, now. Eight years. Eight years, and he had assumed the man before him dead, a fonder memory that he dredged up in the colder nights.  
  
Had he not heard Ra's Al Ghul whisper to Talia that it would be kinder to end him, as well?

He waited as those eyes began to roam over him. They still had cleverness to them, not the dull glaze of the doctor’s or many others of the pit. There was still a spark of flame, nearly stamped out into the ash, but there. They finally locked on his face, his mask, his own eyes, and Bane could not read the look in them, embarrassment, perhaps, relief, a bone-deep tiredness that seemed to make the man sag onto the floor more. His elbows touched ground and his hands stayed uselessly at his sides.

“You are here.” It was spoken thickly, not as clear as before, as though he was no longer used to speaking, at all, as though, between his voice and his hands, he had been rendered near mute for so long, isolated from even the other prisoners. “Why are you here? Am I dead?”

Bane shook his head slowly. It had been such a long time. His fingers should not have remembered the signs, how to move and speak for him, yet it all seemed to come back with ease, with the memory of Barsad lounging back in his tent, feet propped up on supplies, cigarette tucked between his lips as his own fingers danced.

_Not dead. Ready to be brought back to life_

It was foolish whim, truly. What use could there be for him? But their plans were culminating. Gotham would have its winter, and during it, there would be so little for Bane to do. Surely Talia would not begrudge him it. Not if he explained to her. Foolish, indeed, but he could not fight himself. He only knew that Barsad would not be left down here. His guilt, something he had thought he had washed himself of a lifetime ago, would not allow it.

Barsad closed his eyes at his words, too still as he lay out on the floor. He opened them in a moment, a shaky breath rattling through him “They talk of you here. I thought you might one day come. I had to live to see it, just in case.”

_You thought I might rescue you?_  
  
Barsad blinked slowly and shook his head. “No. I just thought I might see you, that it might be a nice thing to see you once more.”

The words made something twist in his chest, something more than guilt. He reached out and took hold of his arms, easing him up to sit, but it was as far as he could go. Shifting his body made him cry out in pain, his arms pressing down onto his thigh to brace it, clearly never having healed right after the gunshot taken there. Bane wondered if he would even survive being carried out. His eyes might have had a spark still, but his body looked like glass.

The room was empty save for them, the doctor having shambled out and no one else occupied this small area of the cells.

His fingers grasped the back of his mask, working open the fasteners carefully. The low hiss from the action echoed in the room, and he took a slow, deep breath as he lifted it. The cut of pain was stronger today, memories of the pit, but he pushed it back as he held the muzzle of the mask to Barsad's mouth, cupping the back of his skull to encourage him to breathe in the fumes and let them do their work.

The dose was a powerful one. For Bane, it had been steadily increased through the years. For one who had not breathed it in, Barsad suddenly gasped and sagged down further onto the floor. His eyes clouded with a few slow pulls of the stuff, and Bane retracted the gift after, pulling it back over his face. It made Barsad more docile, while seeming to have put a new life in to him by temporarily easing his pain. He was able to pull him into his arms, then, one hooked under his knees, the other his shoulders as he stood with him, carrying him into the hall.

Barsad coughed lightly into his shoulder and wheezed. “Good stuff, friend.”  
  
Bane could not help but chuckle quietly, the rumble of it able to be felt through his chest, and it put the crack of a smile on Barsad's dry lips.

More than one brow rose at his re-entry into the open area of the pit. He could scarcely blame them, leaving for the doctor and coming back tenderly holding a man who was little more than skin and scruff and bones.

“He is not meant to be here.” It was all there was to say. For all that Ra's Al Ghul had kept him from the league, with his death there had never been even a hint of hesitance to follow Bane after he was named their new leader. Barsad was fastened to his pulley with him, and lifted into the light. His eyes squinted shut as they hung from the rope, and Bane placed his hand over them lightly to block out the brightness.

Talia's voice was tinny, far away as he held the satellite phone, hard enough to hear without a mask covering his ear.

“I did not send you there for a pet.” It was hard to read her tone through the crackle of static. He hoped it was amused.  
  
“I know, sister.” He glanced over at Barsad, curled into the corner of cargo hold. He had been asleep nearly the entire time since rising out of the pit, first on the floor of the jeep and now here, piled under a heap of surplus blankets to conserve as much heat as his body had and shielding against the chill in the plane. Bane had tried but could not get him to sleep on a cot. Sudden emergence into the sun could not wipe away the muck of the pit. Bane knew that well enough. All who were lowered into it were forever tainted by the memory, and when Bane had laid him out on the makeshift one he had ordered set up, Barsad had kicked back to life, shaking his head and shoving at Bane's shoulders.

 

_“The floor, the floor!”_  
  
“The floor is freezing.” He had said it even knowing it could not be heard, not wanting to let go of Barsad to sign out the words and have him manage to flip himself out of the cot to further injury. He had relented, finally, and had carried him to the warmest spot he could find in the hold.

 

“I suppose you must have something to do while you are in Gotham.” He _could_ hear her amusement then, and was surprised by how relieved he was by it. Had she ordered it, he would have found Barsad someplace else to be, and truly he would be safer there, but what was safety for men such as them? He talked to her for a few moments more, wistful, joyful that he would see her soon, perhaps be able to touch her for a brief moment in private.

_You must drink._ The plane was quiet, dark save for the lantern Bane had set on the floor beside them. He sat next to the pile of blankets and some canvas he had managed to coax Barsad onto to keep him better insulated. He held the canteen to Barsad's lips and he drank greedily even though Bane knew the water inside to be bitter with sedatives and pain relievers. They made him hazy, less guarded, and Bane took the opportunity to inspect his hands more closely, his thumb running over the bone in his wrist, a silent apology when it was clear moving them hurt even with medication.

“A hammer,” Barsad slurred out the words, making understanding them a struggle. “Bound ‘em up so they wouldn't heal, and dropped me down there. No one would help take them off. Easier prey. I gnawed them off after a few weeks, but the damage was mostly done by then.”

He would never be telling him this without the medicine making his tongue looser, Bane could sense it, and he pressed his fingers to his lips to quiet him, knowing what it was like to have secrets pulled from him by the fuzzy lull of medication. Barsad kissed them, making him still. It was not in subservience, like a man begging to not be hurt again, but nearly playful. Barsad may have been broken, but he was still Barsad, and broken things mend. Bane himself was proof of that. He tapped over his lips in response and held out a bit of bread for him to chew slowly before he was exhausted and asleep again.


	7. Chapter 7

_I will give you a choice, but you must make it now, I'm afraid._ Barsad was more coherent, sitting up in the car, his eyes lock onto the window, though clearly watching Bane's hands in the reflection as he gazed out of it at the sky and all that it held, hungry as a starving man. Bane had explained some of their plan, as much as he could afford to spare with time—and secrecy, should Barsad decide not to join them—being of the essence. _Come with me, or there will be a final plane to take you where you might wish._

Barsad curled his lip and a rush of amused air left him as he laid his head back on the seat, rolling it to face him. “Where else would I go, old friend?” He sounded pained at the simple truth of it. Bane did not know his past, but after eight years in the pit, it might as well belong to someone else.

“They speak of you in the pit, still.” Barsad's voice dropped as he turned back to the window. “Stories. They do not call you the devil there. They call you death itself, the reaper.”

Perhaps it was a more accurate title considering their current state.

Barsad's shriek of pain echoed through the tunnel system, his teeth sinking down into the leather of a belt doing little to muffle it. Bane had no love for doctors, but he knew that one was needed in this case. The news was unpleasant, and now Barsad was experiencing the brunt of it; each finger re-broken in an attempt to shift them properly, so that they could knit together how they were supposed to. It was clearly excruciating, wetness clumping in Barsad's lashes as he held his hands still.

The doctor left with his bag, and Barsad slid down onto the floor in an instant, glad to be off of the cot. His breath heaved in his lungs, shaky as he tried to settle. His hands were wrapped up tightly in clean, white gauze that hid them away from view, each finger splinted and held in place.

“It's worth it, if I can use them again and not feel so helpless.” He closed his eyes only for a moment and they flickered around restlessly, a tic he had developed now. “Even if it is not to speak.”

_I feel as though you will again, one day._   Bane slid down onto the floor slowly beside him. It seemed as if he was spending almost as much time there as Barsad as of late, feeling strange towering over him.

Gotham's so-called revolution had begun. He had felt the rush of emotions that came with it. The exhilaration of a plan so long in developing finally coming to fruition, the joy in his heart that he had had to mask when she had walked into the boardroom, the heavy gravity of instructing their bomb to be activated, sealing the fate of millions, a necessary evil. Now amidst the chaos of the people in the streets overthrowing those who had enslaved them for so long, Bane found there to be little for him to do, just as he’d suspected. He turned his energies towards Barsad, 'his pet project' as Talia had teased him. She knew him too well, that he always was in a more calmed state when he had something else besides himself to look after—her, a revolution, and now it seemed Barsad had found himself in that niche.

His body was becoming more whole. After he was able to keep down more hearty foods—they had turned his stomach at first, too rich in their nutrition—he began to put weight back onto his slender frame, no longer looking like a skeleton. He ate from Bane's hand, something that caused a rush of embarrassment in the man once he was more lucid, but Bane insisted. It was faster, cleaner, and it gave him something to do. His clothes were clean and whole, his beard trimmed down by Bane's hands so that he did not look nearly so wild.

Walking was pain, but it was done with determination that Bane thought did the man good. After being settled into the sewers, he had refused Bane's arms, gritting his teeth hard as he slowly forced himself to his feet.

“ _I am not a child, nor an invalid.” Defiance flashed in his eyes, daring Bane to tell him otherwise. Good.  He thumped a hand over his back, nearly knocking him over._

The mind, however, was a more complex thing, not something a bowl of soup and some bandages could fix. Bane understood well the mindset of the pit, how the struggle for survival changed one, and he recognized the little details in Barsad, the anxious tics, the flashes in his eyes, the flinch he fought in his body when Bane would touch his shoulder.

Bane was well equipped to take care of him. It was a possessive thought that occupied his time. Talia saw him too well. He did better with someone to mend; it soothed his own psyche. In his trunk, tucked away safe, there was a small stuffed friend that was proof enough of that. How often had he put aside his own needs as a child to dote on Osito? It was a coping mechanism he well recognized now, but felt no need to put an end to. It hurt nothing.

“Do you think I will?” Barsad sounded cautious. He held in much of his experience, as Bane had suspected he would without medication plying him, but now he seemed wistful, longing for a piece of his past. He seemed comforted when Bane spoke with him, even though Bane was sure his own finger motions were clumsier now with disuse. He was surprised Barsad could even understand them.  
  
 _I do. I have a talent for recognizing those who will overcome all adversity put before them_.

It put the ghost of a smile on Barsad's lips and Bane's own matched it, as hidden away as Barsad's hands.

_Come along, little lamb._ His fingers twist the words, playfulness hard to convey in such a way for him, but he chuckled quietly when he saw Barsad's dark scowl, how he hobbled after him with jerky motions.  
  
“You _will_ stop calling me that.”

How could he? The name was simply apt. Barsad followed him everywhere now, a dark little shadow that none questioned. His hands were always shoved carefully into deep pockets, never saying a word to anyone else as he stared out, be it the underground where he oversaw the men or out in the wild circus of the court. He was always quiet unless he was alone with Bane.

His hands were healing slowly, so much broken in them, his leg getting stronger with use though it was clear pain raked through his body with each step. He never complained of it, never said a word of protest to the long paths Bane walked to and from the court. He only accepted pain pills and a swallow of water from Bane's hand when they were available.   
  
Now he had something else for him. Electricity was on for the moment, a rare spot in the past few weeks, and he took advantage of it. He waited for Barsad to follow him into the room he had claimed for himself, which Barsad had claimed, too, at least the corner of it to sleep.  A tub had been place there, and from the door Bane could see the steam still rising out of it. Hot water, a bath to soak Barsad's leg in; true luxury.

Barsad stopped with him at the entryway and his eyes widened in surprise then lidded in satisfaction. “You do like me.” He said it happily, half a boast, half a reassurance to himself. Barsad pulled his hands from his pockets slowly and Bane unzipped his jacket for him without a word, always sparing him the embarrassment that came with needing to ask to be undressed. The rest he always managed, determined, carefully pulling his shirt over his head, toeing out of his loosely tied boots and rolling down the elastic band of his pants.

The groan when he lowered himself into the steaming liquid bordered on obscene. Bane's mind shifted towards a memory, soft lips wrapped around his cock and a groan of contentment that matched what he had just heard, a lifetime ago, and he dismissed it after a moment of fondness. Barsad kept his hands from the water and for a brief moment his eyes closed fully. He relaxed, tension forced from his frame by heat. Bane did not touch him until his eyes fluttered open, face already covered in steam. He was rewarded when Barsad did not flinch at the touch.

Bane washed him then, lathering up a scrap of cloth with a small bar of soap then slicking it over his skin. It was not unfamiliar now.  Bane had scrubbed him clean when he was first free of the pit, standing in the shower with him, and he had done the same when they only had a bucket of water to share, pouring half over him and then the rest over himself to sluice away the suds and dirt. Now was more intimate, and from the shiver of Barsad's skin he was certain the other man could feel that. He traced the corner of the soapy cloth along his shoulders, down the dips of muscle in his chest and belly. Barsad sighed and his head dropped back against the edge of the tub. Eyes open, but relaxed still.

He hissed when Bane pressed against the knot of torn muscle on his thigh. It had healed terribly. Were Bane one to believe in doctors, he would say it needed surgery, but he knew well enough how surgery could only make things worse. Now he kneaded the flesh in his palms carefully, listening to the choked, agonized noise that ripped from Barsad's throat. Only his hands being bandaged kept them from diving into the water to stop him.

“Y-You are trying to kill me,” he accused, voice shaky from pain. Bane only continued the assault until he felt the traumatized muscles begin to relax slightly under his hands, until Barsad's writhing tapered off and the trembling in his arms settled. It was not a cure, but Bane suspected that Barsad would be walking with less pain in the morning, between the heat and his hands. When he finally only rubbed over the submerged skin to soothe it, Barsad made a noise of relief. Bane patted his thigh lightly and left him to soak. Not far, Barsad was never far from his sight, as was both of their preference, but he took care of some charts in the room, put out two cans of food for their dinner. He waited until the water would be beginning to cool before he went back to the tub.

Barsad's smile was almost lazy then, a light quirk of his lips when Bane filtered back into his line of sight. He was only ever so relaxed in their room, shut away, knowing Bane would not leave and that none would enter there. His eyes flickered around less. He looked tired from the day. If he could have, Bane was sure he would have fallen asleep in the hot water.  
  
He wrapped his arms around his slippery warm body and hefted him up to stand. Water rushed down Barsad's frame and Bane wrapped him in a towel, helping him step out.

“Giving your puppy a bath,” Barsad muttered, self deprecating, but he clamped his arms down to keep the towel around his body, limping over to the blanket in the corner. Bane waited for him to settled before answering.  
  
 _More an old dog._

It earned a sharp bark of laughter, and Bane heated the food in front of the small fire they kept. It was something Barsad liked to carefully warm himself over, understanding the treasure that it was as only one from the pit could. Bane carried the bowl over and fed them both, sitting across on Barsad on his blanket. Between bites of stew, they often spoke, one of the rare times Barsad could read what was left of his lips.

“How long have we been down here?”  
  
“Roughly a month. Did you have somewhere to be?”

Barsad quirked his lips and leaned forward to take a quick bite off the spoon. Bane's bite. He chewed, satisfied with himself. “Perhaps I have a date.”

“I think you will be missing it,” Bane replied dryly, refusing to let a sprig of jealousy bloom when he knew that what Barsad said was only a joke.

Barsad did not reply to that. He glanced down at his hands, instead. “I was only wondering if there was a chance these would be off soon. If I could try to move them before the end.”


	8. Chapter 8

“The end may not be the end for us.” Bane had told him about their evacuation plans. He had told Barsad everything by now, things he had told no one else. Secrets that he had signed to him in nothing but candlelight by the man's blanket when nightmares woke him and he could not sleep.

“I know, but it may, and it just seems a shame, to not use them again.”

“Your injuries are great, but fingers tend to heal faster than other bones. We will wait and see.” He pulled the spoon back before Barsad could snap it up, taking his bite and chewing slowly.

Barsad sunk back and nodded after a moment. “And then what, friend? What if we do live… what will be next for us?”

“We will find you a place to be,” Bane said simply. He would be healed enough then. He could not imagine that he would want to follow him any longer, not once he had back the use of his hands.

“I have found my place.”

“If you have ever wished for peace in your life, you will not find it with me,” Bane warned. The fight for justice and equality in the world was a brutal one, and he knew that what they fought for, for a true peace, would never be felt in his own heart.

“You found me as a soldier. Had I not been lost, it is still what I would be now.”

“It is what you still are.”  
  
Barsad made a disgusted noise, holding his hands up, nearly pushing them into Bane's face. “I am nothing now, like this. Only your dog, as you say. I am sure it is what your men think.” There was bitterness in his tone, and he let his hands drop uselessly to his sides.

  
“You are angry with me.” Bane said it uncertainly. He had been waiting for it, and perhaps now it had finally come. Only Barsad blinked at him, confused.  
  
“Angry with you?”  
  
“I left you.”

There was dead silence in the room for a moment and Bane waited for resentment to finally bubble out of Barsad, anger over being left behind, rage.  
  
He was startled when he only tipped his head back and laughed, sharp but genuine. Like Bane had truly entertained him.

“What exactly do you find so funny about being left behind to rot?”  
  
Barsad's laugh finally tapered off, but there was a twist to his lips still. “That you thought I would be angry. I told you to run, did I not? To go? It was my last wish for you to make it. Had you stayed, I would have shot you myself for ruining my sacrifice.” 

“But it was not your last wish.”  
  
“Something neither of us knew. I would change nothing, and it would be foolish to be angry about it, at least angry towards you.” His brow furrowed. “Those men, though, I would like to see them dead one day.”

“You know their faces?”

“They are etched in the back of my eyes. One doesn't forget the face of someone smashing a hammer into their fingers, and they were all happy to take turns.”

“It seems that if we make it through the purging, we will have something to look forward to, after all.” Bane was certain that Talia would allow for a side endeavor. If anything, she might enjoy joining them.

Barsad paused, surprised at the offer then pressing his lips together for a moment. “Going to sic your dog on them?”  
  
“You are not truly my dog... though you look it curled up in the corner.”

He ducked his head in response, ashamed. It was a sore subject between them. The cot would be warmer. Bane understood how habits in the pit could shape someone, but he also believed in throwing off those shackles. “I feel better with the ground beneath me.” His voice dropped more, almost a whisper. “I can feel it, then, the vibrations in the dark... if someone is coming for me.”

Bane touched his shoulder, making his body jerk, but his eyes focused again. “No one is coming for you here.”

They tried it that night. Bane left the lantern on, and Barsad ever so reluctantly sat down on the corner of Bane's cot.  He had not bothered to get Barsad one of his own, it seemed pointless when the man refused to use it. Barsad stared out into the dark, shoulders tense. He winced suddenly, glancing down at his hands, having tried to grasp them tight instinctively. He shook his head quickly. “I cannot.”  
  
 _Try for me. Make it through the night, and you may claim your prize.  
  
_ It was temptation, and it weighed on Barsad. Bane had more than one thought of what the man might ask of him, things unspoken but felt at times, but he shook his head, still trying to rise up. “I cannot. I cannot sleep like this.”  
  
Bane put a hand to his shoulder, preventing him from hopping back up onto his legs.  _Do not_ _sleep, then. Rest. I will watch.  
  
_ “And guard over my rest?” Barsad sounded half amused, half desperate, reminiscent of a child Bane had once held, fearful of the nightmares in the dark that were all too real.  
  
 _Yes._

It was enough to get him to slowly lie back on the cot. Bane could see the tremor in his arms. His hands shifted from lying at his sides to over his chest and then back again, as if he did not know what to do with them. Bane only pulled the blanket up around him. It was an old trick he used to use with Talia, to coax her into lying back, telling her she did not have to sleep, only rest. It clearly worked on more than little girls. He could see how Barsad tried to keep his eyes open wide, staring into the lantern light, but his skin was clean, his stomach full, the cot softer than anything he had laid on in some time and those lidded eyes began to droop fast enough even with the fear in him.

“You are cheating.” It was a sleepy mutter when Bane's hand touched his forehead. Barsad had watched its descent, had not flinched for it, but his eyes closed finally when Bane smoothed his fingers over his brow. He said nothing, not wishing for Barsad to open his eyes again and lose his sleepiness by focusing on his hands. He only stroked through his hair until Barsad's breathing was evened by sleep.

It did not last long. Perhaps thirty minutes in, Barsad sprang up from the bed, a low cry of terror ripping from his chest. Bane set his book down, hand going to his chest. He could feel the rapid fire beat of his heart thumping under his hand. Barsad's eyes were wild, but focused on him in an instant, lock onto him like he was an anchor. His arms dropped and he panted for breath. It was far from unusual. It was far from the first attack Barsad had had while he slept, but it was more severe than most. He tried to apologize for it, as always. Bane only laid him back down, insisted he try to sleep more.

“I cannot, not like this.”  
  
 _Then rest._

It was cruel, but Bane began to insist on it each night, even when it cost him his own sleep. He would not allow Barsad any sleep in the corner, be it day or night. Barsad protested, at times even tried to slip back to the blanket in the corner when Bane himself was sleeping, but Bane would catch him, would not allow it. He placed the blanket on the bed to warm him further, told him to rest each time it was clear Barsad's weariness would wear him down to the point of sleep if Bane was there and awake. He was cursed at for it, pleaded with. Neither swayed him, though he was quite tired by the end of the month.

Bane's eyes shot open to the feeling of a gentle touch to his thigh. His head had drooped down, his fingers splayed out flat on the book.

“You fell asleep, friend.” It was not said accusingly, perhaps it was even fond. It was morning, Bane could sense it in his body and he blinked the sleep from his eyes, feeling the crick in his neck as he turned to see Barsad settled back on the blankets still, his bandaged hand resting on his thigh. He looked relaxed, like he had woken up for once without fear, still stretched out languidly on the cots. It was a pleasant sight, and Bane reached out to touch, to run a finger slowly down Barsad's thigh, fingers turning feather-light over the thick sunburst scar on his thigh.

_You slept through the night?_

“I did.” There was a touch of pride to his tone. He had conquered something. They both knew it would not be so easy every night, but to have won this at least once was something great. His eyes flicked up towards him then, and there was something in them that was certainly not pride at all. “Does this mean that I get to claim my prize?”

Bane had forgotten the promise made nearly a month ago. _What prize do you claim?_

“Your hands. Keep touching me.” Barsad's voice was half pleading and beyond that it was sweet, stirring Bane. His hand slid up Barsad's thigh, fingers leaving the scar and instead slipping under the shorts he had worn to bed. The skin was soft there—Bane had washed it enough to know. It had only been fleeting touches then, but now he let himself trace soft circles there, savoring the smooth warmth under his fingertips.

Barsad's lidded eyes watched him like a hawk's, sleepiness leaving them, replaced by want. His thighs parted and Bane's fingers slid up higher, trailing over his balls, fondling his cock and listening to the low grunt the action caused, how Barsad licked eagerly over his cracked lips before sucking the bottom one between his teeth and shuddering when Bane finally pulled the shorts down and out of the way.

Barsad was stiff, his length already swelling and curved against his belly. His hips curled up like a feline when Bane stroked a finger up him slowly. Precome dripped from his slit and ran down in a thin line to kiss his belly. He rubbed the slippery mess into the skin, making his stomach clench and suck in, making him nearly close his eyes before he forced them open again and a flush stole over his features.

It was mesmerizing to watch, just as it had been to feel him so long ago on his own cock. Now he could feel the trembling under his skin, the agonized cry when Bane wrapped his hand around his length and drew up it slowly, like the touch was breaking Barsad apart, making his hips jerk up desperately even when Bane brought a hand up to pin them down.

“ _Please_ , please, Bane.” It was chanted out between bitten red lips, lips that had once been just as red and wrapped around his cock. He sounded wrecked in minutes, his eyes but slits, deep blue peering out as he watched Bane's hands, as he writhed under them, as his cock twitched in them, until a low pitched cry  was pulled from him, almost a wail as he managed to buck up, pulsing out hot and sticky between his fingertips.

When he dropped back down onto the bed, his entire body shook for a moment. Bane wiped his hands, rubbing over Barsad's chest and feeling the sharp shudder that ran through him, the quick huffs for air as his body worked to settle. Finally, he seemed to almost melt onto the bed, a content breath pushing out past his lips.

“Eight years. An eight year itch finally scratched.” He nearly choked out the words. Bane patted his side quietly, understanding.


	9. Chapter 9

It was an itch that turned into a hunger, a prize that Barsad claimed each night he managed to make it through sleeping in his cot without waking. It did not happen often, but when it did, Barsad writhed under his hands, a beautiful display as he was worked up into a fever pitch. Bane still did not bother to requisition another cot. Winter was cold, and body heat was better shared. He found Barsad greedy for it when he began to join him in rest at night, curling around his body like a snake, nearly needing to be pried off each morning with a low grumble.

It was quite distracting. More so when he felt the firm press of 'morning wood' against his thigh each morning, and when his own felt good rubbed against Barsad's thigh, in return.  The man knew it. Was downright smug about it when he felt it, rolling his hips slowly against him and breathing out contently the first morning he did. His arm draped over his shoulder and his sleepy eyes flicked up at him, lashes still fluttering from having just woken and his voice like gravel. 

“Like that?”  
  
His hands were not able to answer, otherwise occupied digging into his hips, pulling him closer, but Bane was somehow certain that Barsad knew the answer to the question anyway, judging by the rough chuckle against his throat. 

“I could suck your prick. Don't need hands for that, do I?”

Bane supposed that he did not, indeed, and it made for quite the tempting offer, but he rather enjoyed this, as well, the friction and slow drag of Barsad against him, sending tendrils of warmth curling through his body, how he could feel Barsad shiver against him. Bane rolled them, instead, settling the smaller man so that his legs were forced to splay out on either side of Bane’s hips. Barsad winced, sucking in a breath when the stretch pulled at the muscles in his thigh, but he shook his head quickly when Bane reached to help him rise off.

“It is more than worth it,” he mumbled, eyes lidded as he cast his gaze down at Bane, as though he was the one who had chosen the position, had lured Bane under him and trapped him there, ready to devour. He fell forward, his elbows pressing down into the cot besides Bane's head as their bodies slid against one another, slow rocks and heavy breathing filling the air. Bane could feel it against his throat along with a sudden press of lips, a scrape of teeth that made his hips buck sharply and earned a low, nearly delighted laugh.

“Move with me, faster.”  
  
It was thrilling, near suffocating to have all of Barsad pressed flat against him, sweat tingeing their skin and making their chests slide, huffs for air as heat built up more and more, a fire stoked too high and sure to burn them both to ash. Barsad was the first lost to it, his hips suddenly quickening, and he grunted out, eyes shut tight as his orgasm rushed from him.   
  
“U-Unfair. I would have lasted longer, had it not been so long,” he gasped out, but slumped onto him, content. Bane was not nearly so, his length still pressing insistently against Barsad, and he smacked a hand over his hip, making him jump and then laugh softly. “Sorry, friend, roll us, I am happy to be used.”

Bane shook his head, amused even through a slight frustration, and did indeed roll them, his hips pressed roughly against the backs of Barsad's clothed thighs as he spread them and rubbed against his body, the tight friction and sleepy, spent look on Barsad's face, the tired roll of his hips, drawing his own orgasm from him. It made him feel like a youth, spilling in his pants, sticky and warm, but Barsad's eyes were near glowing in satisfaction and it did not feel so foolish when he rose up to press a soft kiss to the area of his cheek exposed by his mask. It instead felt rather wonderful, indeed.

 

________________

It was a different doctor. The first had been lost during occupation, not a great loss as far as Bane was concerned, but it did mean scouring the city to find another as Barsad's hands were a delicate enough matter that it was not something he wanted to leave only with the healers. This one nearly hunched in on himself, his breath rattling in his lungs, unnerved to be brought down to the sewers, but, to his slight merit, he showed dedication to the task when focused on it, ignoring the scowls and swears Barsad muttered as his hands were handled. 

“They can come off. They might never be the same, but how well they work will be entirely up to how much pain you're willing to go through to rehabilitate them.” It was almost a challenge, something the old man might have spoken to many before, and Barsad, above all things, enjoyed a challenge. Bane could see the determined spark in his eye as the bandages were slowly clipped off, the splints removed.  
  
The doctor was dismissed, more than happy to leave, and Barsad stared down at his pale skin, scaled over at the knuckles and looking frail.

“They look nothing like they once did... They do not even feel as though they are my hands.” He whispered it, and when he slowly squeezed them shut, Bane could see the pain in his eyes, how his fingers shook from it.

_When I first put on the mask, I felt much the same._ _You will learn to use them again in time._

It was slow. Simple tasks hurt, simple exercises hurt, everything hurt, and yet Barsad pushed through each task, sucking in sharp breaths and frustrated each time his hands simply refused to listen to his body. It was worse with the cold bite of winter setting in. Bane privately worried about the man's fingers getting frostbitten without his knowing, so little feeling beyond pain in his hands at the moment. It led to him taking them in his own more than once after a long snowy walk, inspecting them and carefully rubbing warmth back into them.

It is on one such walk that he noticed it. He had seen it before, the quiet longing in Barsad's eyes when they would pass certain men, not for the men themselves, but for the rifles they carried. The slowness of his rehabilitation was frustrating him, and Bane could see how that longing look was slowly twisting into a sort of bitterness with each day that he could not make his hands do as he demanded.

Bane had it set on the table in their room. It was an older piece, but from what he learned of it, quite trustworthy, well cared for by its previous owner, and now deserving one who would treat it with the same care. It was impossible to miss when they walked back into the room, stamping snow off of their boots, shaking out of their coats. Barsad could work the zipper now, slowly, very slowly, but he was determined to do it each time no matter how long it took.

His eyes glanced towards the table as he set aside his coat. They shifted away from it quickly, the blue in them turning as cold as the walk they had just left. “It is cruel to keep that there.”  
  
 _It is for you.  
  
“_ And _that_ is even crueler,” Barsad spat out. “Do you also give books to blind men? Should you have been gifting me with music, as well?”  
  
 _It is not to be cruel. It is to give you a goal, something to strive for._

“Don't be ridiculous. They will never be as good as they once were. _I_ will never be as good as I once was.” There was resentment there, for himself. It was a thing that Barsad tried never to show or feel, but now it made his shoulders hunch, and he turned away from the table, sliding down onto the cot and curling in on himself, his feet still shoved into his boots. 

Bane walked over to sit beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder until he would turn to look at him.

_Such a poor attitude. What would I have been, had I had the same?_

Barsad snorted, his lips pressed together in amusement. “Useless.”

Bane chuckled quietly and tapped a finger over his nose, making him scowl and rub it. _Not useless, without purpose. Lost._

“I do not feel lost,” Barsad answered quickly then sighed. “I feel out of place. Before, I could help you. Before, I would have guarded you from rooftops, been the strongest of your men. I know it.”

_I have no doubt. Now you will simply have to prove the same is still true with this_.

“I could not even lift it, now, if I tried, let alone use it.” Barsad finally turned to look at it again, the bitterness was gone, though, replaced with a look of wistfulness, instead. He slid off of the cot and crossed the room to the table, reaching out to run his finger along the cool, smooth metal of the rifle's muzzle.

“Hello, friend,” he whispered in quiet greeting. “We will become better acquainted one day.”

With the limited use of his hands, Barsad did not keep quite as close to Bane. He still was most often found in his shadow, to be certain, but on some evenings he would forgo the walk Bane took, would stay inside of their room or take his own. Bane did not prefer it. He certainly did not like the idea of Barsad out in the chaos of Gotham when he still was not at his best, but he was reluctant to admit that even without the full use of his hands, Barsad was clever enough to always return to him.

That evening, he walked from the courthouse alone, roughly a month left, and then their time in Gotham would draw to a close. Barsad had stayed home. Bane had declared him to be a lazy creature, to curl up in the warmth of their cot while he made an appearance at the court. Barsad had responded by swatting at him and closing his eyes, curling into a ball under their bedding. Lazy.

Not so now, though. Bane wondered as he stepped into their room if earlier had merely been a ruse so that Bane would not disrupt him. Barsad was certainly awake, his back to the door as he sat at the table. The rifle was there in pieces, stripped down by caring hands, every piece being cleaned and checked with keen precision, though Bane knew the motions themselves much be causing pain.

He let the door shut loudly enough that the vibration would travel to Barsad's socked feet on the floor. He twisted quickly in the chair in response, eyes looking near caught before he simply jerked his head in greeting and went back to the work at hand. Bane said nothing, only sitting on the edge of the cot to watch him, every piece finally inspected; it was painstakingly hard for Barsad to reassemble it. His jaw clenched when he had to twist and push carefully with his hands, but the final piece locked into place, and with it Barsad himself seemed to click into a state of relief. Everything neat and tidy, everything in its place.

_Well done._

Barsad snorted, his chest nearly puffing up. He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, hesitating a moment before he brought his hands up, his motions slow, strained. _Of course it is well done._

Bane laughed and, in a moment of pure, foolish whimsy, drew the other man up into his arms, ignoring his squawk of startled protest and carrying him off to bed.


	10. Chapter 10

They lay in bed together after, skin flushed warm with satisfaction despite the chill. Barsad's hands were in his own and Bane rubbed them slowly, long enough to take the ache away for a short while, watching as Barsad's eyes nearly fluttered shut.

“You are amorous today. I like it.” He mumbled out the words with a curl of a smile on his mouth. “I would like my reward always to be sex and your hands.”

Bane made an amused sound, letting go of his hands and waiting for his eyes to open. _Of course you would. You are a very indulgent individual._

“Only because you have indulged me,” he shot back happily, slipping his hands expectantly back into Bane’s. Presumptuous. He rubbed them again anyway, and Barsad sighed, waiting a moment before speaking again.

“There is one more thing I would like, too, not as a reward, but as a gift.” 

_Have I not spoiled you enough?_

“Not nearly.” His mouth flashed into a wicked curve before he became more serious, his fingertips reaching out to touch the grate of his mask.

“May I kiss you, friend? May I taste your lips?”

The question was one he had never expected. He would be a fool not to admit to himself that there was certainly something... unique… between them, something he could not quite name, but still this came to him as a surprise. He sat up quickly, brow furrowing.

_Why?_

Barsad laughed, not cruelly, but it felt it for a moment even though his eyes smiled, still. He sat up when he perhaps saw how Bane was withdrawing from him.

“I am sorry, friend. It was just an amusing question... to think that I would have to list all of the reasons that I would like to kiss you.” He pressed his lips to the muscle of Bane's shoulder, a promise of what he would like to do to his mouth. “Have you never?”

Bane could not help but give him a wry look. _There are many things I 'had never' before meeting with you._

Barsad looked far too satisfied with such a notion, the smirk back on his lips. “I wondered... will you allow me this, then?"

He looked down at his own hands, unsure what to say with them for a moment. He was asking it as a gift to be given, not expecting it, hoping, hoping to kiss his scarred and tattered lips, of all things. It was not as if he did not know what they looked like, what he was asking for; he saw them each day when they ate together. He should have known they were nothing to want to kiss. It was nearly frustrating, that Barsad could be so blind as to not understand that Bane was not someone to want to kiss.

_I will think about it,_ he finally signed out, shoulders stiffer, tighter still when Barsad suddenly wrapped around him from behind, all of his warmth plastered to his back and reminding him of that passion they had just shared, even more so when he tapped a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, boldly across the old and worn scar there.

“No. Now, Bane. If you must think, I will never get my kiss.”

_And you say it is I am who is cruel._ His hands twisted, and Barsad reached out to cup his own over them.

“It is not to be cruel. It is to give you a goal, something to strive for.” Barsad mimicked his words from before, and Bane could feel the smile his lips curved into when he brushed them against his neck.

_Strive for?_

“Yes. If I had my way, I would have your lips to myself whenever you were able.” He murmured it happily against the leather curve of his mask, as though it could not be more true. A surprised noise escaped him when Bane twisted and pulled him into his lap. He grumbled, always at least mildly discontent at being manhandled, but he stilled at seeing how Bane's eyes studied him.

“You do not believe I could want this.”

_I don't understand how you could want it_ , Bane corrected, finding it harder to look into piercing blue eyes as his fingers spoke the truth of the matter.

“I have trusted you in many things, friend. You will simply have to trust me in this.” Barsad sounded far more confident in it than Bane felt. His chest felt tighter as Barsad's hands crept up to trail over the muzzle of his mask, a finger tapping over the grate in silent request. A request that Bane found himself granting, his own hands working open the clasps to the mask, taking a deeper inhale of the medication before he lifted it from his lips slowly.

They were attacked with a fierce tenderness, as though Barsad was afraid he would lose his nerve. He was perhaps wise in it. Bane had never felt more out of his element, not when Barsad's mouth was on his, soft, curved lips pressing into the tatters of his own, tasting him with a content noise escaping his throat, as though he was the sweetest thing ever tasted. The soft pink tongue he had seen dip out playfully from between Barsad's lips countless times was now gliding out across his mouth, sending a shiver through him, coaxing his mouth to open so that he might taste him deeper. Bane groaned against his mouth, earning a throaty chuckle of satisfaction before the pain began to tear away at the pleasure of it. He pulled back and lowered the mask, taking slow breaths even as he licked over his own lips, the feeling of Barsad remaining as a tingle over them.

Barsad pressed his mouth to the grate, his own breath pushing past the small holes and brushing over Bane's lips when he spoke. “Let me again, at breakfast.”

_We will see. Sleep now_ , Bane said to him, even though he was already thinking of breakfast, knowing the answer would be yes. Barsad knew it, too; Bane could see it as he curled up contently by his side to sleep and stole his warmth like the greedy creature that he was.  
  
  
  
“I want to patrol.” The words were grunted out after breakfast; slow kisses exchanged between bites of porridge and breaths of medication. When Bane glanced over and arched a brow as he finished slipping on his coat, Barsad crossed his arms, as though daring Bane to tell him he could not.

_There is no reason for it. We have the men. I would rather you walk with me. Patrol with me._ The days were drawing shorter, and now of course would be the time that Barsad felt well enough for stubbornness to streak through him, when Bane would rather him the closest.

“It is not the same. I miss watching from above. It was how I so often spent my time that now to think I have been below the earth so long makes me nauseous at times.”

_How will you guard?_ Bane did not ask to be cruel, but he knew that Barsad's hands were still not what they were, not enough to aim and fire his rifle. Barsad's lips twisted into a bitter look, his face set into a deep scowl.

“I cannot squeeze a trigger, but I can still push the button to a communicator. You only do not wish for me to do it.”

_Of course I do not. Who will keep me company? Depend on my hands for warmth? You are leaving me in a very harsh predicament, indeed. When I suddenly have a little lamb who does not wish to follow._  
  
The gentle reproach removed some of the tightness from Barsad's shoulders. His eyes flicked up uncertainly, and he brought his hands up. Signing still pained him, but it was another thing that he was trying to take back for himself, a little each day. Bane enjoyed watching how the shakiness in his fingers seemed to disappear with it, how they were fluid once more for a short moment, even if it pained him to do it.

_I am,_ he paused to nearly duck his head at the admittance, _still your lamb. I will not stray far._

Compromise was reached. Barsad took a shift in the afternoon, when the sun was highest and at least provided some warmth to the bare rooftops despite the frost and snow that blanketed Gotham. His rifle went with him; Bane suspected that even if he could not fire it yet, that Barsad felt more in control with it by his side. Bane said nothing as he bit roughly into his cheek to hold back a pained noise from lifting its weight. He knew Barsad would make it to the rooftop with it no matter the pain, that he would rather let his hands fall off than admit defeat in such a thing.

It is a silly thing, to feel a pang of loneliness as he made his way to the courts. It was short lived, however, with a burst of static that was muffled in his coat pocket, followed by a teasing voice.

_“_ It is as cold as hell in this city. I am thinking of pressing my hands against your warm chest.”

Bane paused in the street and glanced up, seeing the very barest glint of metal on the high rise just beside the courthouse. Of course. He would pick a location where he would see Bane.

And of course he would choose to torment him over the radio.

_You will be quiet while I am in the courthouse._ He had to look mad, moving his hands about in the middle of the street, but he knew Barsad's binoculars would be trained on him.

“It will depend on how bored I am,” Barsad replied cheerfully with a click of static, and then the radio was silent.

It seemed to give Barsad new purpose, to be guarding the area, watching over Bane's walk. There was a bounce in his step, a more amorous rasp to his voice when he tucked up close to him in the cot. Bane found he liked it, that he did not even miss Barsad on the walks, anymore. It was hard to miss a constant whisper from one's pocket, teasing insinuations drifting to his ears throughout the day, random thoughts that crossed Barsad's mind, sometimes even a quiet tuneless hum, grainy and rough in his receiver, but he found himself listening to it, anyway. It was frustrating, at times, to not be able to answer him, but it was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.

Evacuations have been put into place. There were merely two days left, and the buzz of nervous energy could be felt even in the most disciplined of his men. He did not reprimand them for it. It would be hypocritical when he felt it, himself.  Letters from Talia were few and far between, but he would see her soon enough. He looked forward to introducing her to Barsad. He had a feeling it might be akin to the mixing of oil and water, at first. Talia was too protective of him for anything less, and Barsad spoke to no one but himself since the pit, but he was confident things would settle after, that they would see in each other what Bane saw in them both. Family.

Hands that felt more like ice suddenly tucked under his arms from behind, and a chilly kiss was pressed to the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him as he sat at the table listening to radio reports trickle in from different members of the league. His brow knitted together as he covered the hands wrapped around his waist absently. Barsad felt his lesser reaction to the usual playful tease when he came in from patrol and pulled back to face him.

_What is it?_  
  
Something that should be impossible. It could not be, but the reports over the radio were clear, news trickling in from around the world, from brothers stationed in the farthest regions of it.

The pit was empty.


	11. Chapter 11

One of their own was sent to check the progress of the pit weekly, to be certain Wayne was being kept alive but not too comfortable. There had been not a sound from the pit, not even the barest flash of movement from those below gathering around the base of the mouth. When he had cautiously lowered himself down with a pulley, he had found the entire pit to be empty, corpses strewn about as though a bloody massacre had occurred at the bottom of it. When he had dug through the bodies, he had found a great number of them clutching onto a long length of blood-stained rope. Further inspection had shown the frayed end of it matched a rope end tied to the top of the mouth of the pit.

The brother had filed his report. As far as he could put together, someone had managed the leap, had escaped hell, and dropped down a rope to those below. It had been swarmed, perhaps a handful had made it to the top, perhaps not, but the combined weight, the fighting below in their frenzy to escape, the vicious tugs, they had been the prisoners’ undoing. The rope had finally snapped, and in their rage of being denied when they had finally thought they would taste freedom, none had survived the carnage. They had torn one another to pieces. The brother had found not a single soul left in those cells.

It was a fitting end for all down there, but it led to the question that was making Bane uneasy, was gnawing in his stomach. 

Who had been the one to make the climb, to escape?  
  
The faces down there were near unidentifiable, torn to pieces as thoroughly as his own had been long ago, and there was roughly a week of bloat and rot to aid in the distortion of them. It was nearly impossible to tell them apart. He explained it slowly to Barsad, feeling his body tense in his lap merely at speaking of the pit, but his face tightened in understanding of Bane's fear.

_You worry that it was him who made the climb, that he is coming back here to stir up trouble._

It was bitterly poor timing, and they both understood that, that Bane could not simply leave when there was even the chance that Wayne might return and attempt to stop Gotham's rightful end. There would be no evacuation, not for him. Barsad nodded curtly when it was said, taking Bane's hands and squeezing them lightly before winding his hands around his neck, breathing slowly.

_You may still leave, lamb. There is no need for you to stay for this. You are well enough that you do not need me anymore._

Barsad scoffed against his neck, nails digging into his shoulders for a moment. “I have asked you before and I will ask you again.” He pulled back and his hand cupped tenderly over his mask. “Where else would I go? It is not the first time I have died for you, Askim. Perhaps we will both rise again from it, perhaps not.” His hand ran down his shoulder to his arm, fingers squeezing slowly around it, determined even through the bite of pain Bane knew he had to feel from it, from tugging on his arm as he stood. “Come to bed... If it is to be our end, there is something I want from you.”

His limp was becoming less pronounced, and it now added a certain sureness to the sway of his hips as he moved. It tended to catch Bane's attention more often than not, and at times proved to be a distraction, almost enough so that he did not at first notice how Barsad was stooped over digging through the small crate of supplies by their cot.

_We do not—_

Barsad stood, tossing a small bottle onto the bed, something he had insisted they obtain before, liking the smoother stroke for when their cocks slid against one another. He grasped his fingers to stop Bane from continuing. “I will not die with my last memory of this being used as a torture for me. I will die making it my own again.” 

How could Bane argue with that? Barsad knew he could not and there was a satisfied glint to his eyes as he guided him to the bed, a content curl to his spin as he climbed over him, settled on top of him like a lazy cat seeking strokes and warmth.

_I knew I only had to make you see things my way._ Barsad's fingers had a twist to them, something that was confident, almost as confident as eight years ago when they had lain in the sand together, when Barsad had told him that he would just like a taste of him, only a taste; a sweet lie, for once Barsad had tasted, Bane had never truly been able to let go.

Barsad peeled off his shirt, a task that was becoming easier, before he pulled Bane's hands up to his body, greedy, so greedy, and yet Bane always gave in, touched him until he began to flush red along his throat as he did now. Bane's fingers ran down it, feeling the low moan that rumbled through it as his fingers plucked over his nipple, feeling it pebble under his touch. He squirmed soon, his hands less able to touch, but Bane had learned long ago that Barsad made up for such things in other ways.

His mouth found him, and he was treated to stinging bites across his collarbone, roughness that sent a pulse of warmth through his body as he rolled their hips together, encouraged Barsad to rock against him, to grind and chase the fleeting sensations of pleasure until they were both breathless from it, until Barsad pulled Bane's hands to his buckle, a demand to open it for him and not let time be lost with the slowness it would take Barsad to complete the action. His own pants were rolled down, his cock springing up from the fabric and settling against Bane's, flushed and so hot that Bane could not resist stroking them together, laughing gently when a low whine left Barsad and he shook his head quickly, not wishing his intentions to be ruined by them getting carried away.

_Not there. You know that is not where I want you._

Barsad shucked his pants off impatiently and ordered Bane to open the bottle for him, pouring it onto his fingers messily, spreading his thighs further so his knees slid across the bedding, ignoring the pain the strain must have caused. He only sighed, wrapped himself around Bane like he was an anchor to cling to as Bane touched over his hole with a wet slide of his thumb. It made Barsad shiver, something that ran through his entire body, down to his toes which curled against Bane's legs, but he did not let him stop, kissed at his throat and bit tauntingly at the sensitive skin there.

“Do it.” A throaty murmur against his skin, and he pressed his fingers inside of him, felt how he surrounded them, wet and warm. He thought of it around his cock, groaned quietly at the feeling of it clenching around his fingers. Barsad felt it vibrate through his chest and laughed quietly, told him to keep going, not to stop, not when he thrust his fingers slowly and pulled soft little pants from him. His cock was digging into his thigh, swollen and leaking down onto it as Bane pumped his fingers slowly.

It was another matter, though, when he was opened for him, pushing on Bane's hand to slide his fingers out. There was a fine tremor that ran through his body when he touched over Bane's cock, rubbing more lubricant onto it, his eyes distant, and he flinched when Bane touched his thigh.

_It is your decision._

_I am AWARE._ His face darkened, irritation hiding the nervousness in him that was making his breath quicken into something sharp. Bane tapped his thigh again, reaching for the scarf looped over the end of their cot. It was one of several that Bane had made as the cold winter had worn on. Barsad still kept the first one from so long ago; ratty and with a filth that would never leave it without it unraveling into pieces, it was tucked away safe in their trunk, though Bane noticed it gone at times, on days where Barsad's mood was darker, and a slight bulge to the front of his coat pockets, his hands slipping into them more often.

Now he took this newer one and held it up to Barsad in offering. _Tie me with it. You know I cannot force you then._

_I know you will not force me now,_ Barsad argued, but he took hold of the scarf uncertainly, his eyes flicking towards Bane's wrists.

_Your mind knows that, it is another thing to convince your body._ Bane understood. He was not offended. The pit left memories that could not be shaken with mere words. He only lifted his hands over his head, settling under Barsad as his wrists crossed over one another. Barsad watched him for a long moment, holding the scarf and letting it slide through his fingers several times in quiet contemplation before he stretched over him. The scarf was soft and warm against his wrists. Barsad's hands were not what they had once been, but he could still tie an efficient knot, and when Bane pulled, he knew that between Barsad's work and his own strong stitches that it would take effort to tear through the bindings, something he would not do to a gift given.

Barsad touched his chest, watching his reactions, cautious. He had no reason to be worried. Bane had been shackled, roped, chained up, but never had he been tied in a gentle knot with soft wool, with a concerned and desirable body hovering over him. It dredged up no foul memories. In fact, there was something pleasant about it, how Barsad turned so attentive, kissing at the skin just below his wrists, making him sigh as he placed the same treatment across his throat, his belly, until they were both ready again, his own cock swollen against his stomach when Barsad took it in his hands again.

“A-ah.” It was a sweet noise that left Barsad when he straddled him, his hands only able to hold him so well. He slipped and nudged against his opening and he bit his lip in determination, bore down onto him until he was pressing past the tight muscle, slipping into a tightness that felt like pure sin. It had his fingers squeezing shut uselessly over his head, hyper-aware of each twitch of Barsad's hips, how it pulled him deeper into that warmth.

“Good, yeah?” It was panted out as he slid down further. Bane could see himself, just barely, the hint of his cock sliding deeper until Barsad's body was flush to his, shallow breaths making his chest flutter, his eyes nearly closed, only a peek of blue staring back down at him.

Hands bound, Bane could only nod wordlessly. It made Barsad chuckle, then when his hips shifted his head dropped back, amusement forgotten. “You have no idea how you fill me.”   
  
It was beyond lurid, the way Barsad let the words rumble out of his chest. Bane wanted to know how, wanted every detail of it as long as he could hear it in that low tone, a filthy whisper in his ear. He could not ask for it, though, could only push up with his hips, making himself press and shift inside of Barsad's body. Barsad's hand smacked down on his chest in reaction, not reprimand but pleasure, a shudder running through him.

Bane could think of it no longer, because it had spurred Barsad on and suddenly he was lifting, lowering himself, and Bane felt as though he was drowning, like he could not breathe even with each breath that filled his lungs. The pleasure of Barsad surrounding him, riding him with low cries of bliss, each sweeter than the last, each roll of his hips made Bane rock up, fire pooling in his belly and making the blood pound through his ears.

Barsad's hand was on himself and a frustrated noise left him, unable to concentrate enough to work his hand over his leaking cock and roll his hips, not with the effort it took to squeeze his hand. He was torn between want for both and a near growl left him before he reached up, yanking desperately on Bane's soft bindings, freeing him.

“Touch me. Touch me, damnit.” Barsad's voice was thick, his jaw going slack when Bane's hands circled around him, sweeping up him in long, slow pulls that had him nearly sobbing out in relief, his face tucking into the crook of Bane's neck as his come rushed out over his fingertips. The heat painting his fingers and the absolutely blissful moan that was wrung from Barsad made his own orgasm feel as though it was punched from him, thundering through his body in deep pulses that filled Barsad, whose body lay draped over his own, trembling.

Bane's fingers traced over the cooling sweat on his back and Barsad sighed, his breathing slowing finally. “Thank you.”

_Thank you._ He returned it, unsure if Barsad would see it in the low light. The smile against his chest told him yes, as did the shakily signed out words that followed. It was something that Bane could never bring himself to speak out loud, but seeing those words made it a simple thing, made his chest ache in the sweetest of ways. He returned them, traced those three seemingly simple words back into the air before they held each other and slept.

 

________________

 

When Bane had been in the pit, time had felt like eternity. Now, in those final days of Gotham, it flashed by as though it was sand sifting through his fingertips. Talia was returned to him, and he nearly crushed her in his hold, grieving the loss of her already even knowing that they would end together. She kissed his mask gently, laughed when Barsad nearly shifted from foot to foot in his uncertainty of meeting her. She kissed his cheek. Bane was certain if there was more time they would fight spectacularly, but there was simply no time to work out such differences. Fate made them instant brother and sister. A final night was spent together, the evening with Talia before she went to her own cot. And then they saw the flare of light on the bridge just before the morning twilight. He watched it with Barsad pressed to his side, a silent offer of support.

 

It was time.


	12. Chapter 12

Barsad fixed his gaze out through his scope. He never used binoculars anymore. The scope was always how he had seen the world more sharply, clearly, and it never failed him even if he could not squeeze the trigger. He had tried before, not mentioning it to Bane, but it had been too much; the slow, careful squeeze required had been too much for his hand, making his fingers tremble. Between focusing and the pain, his shot had gone far, had clipped a wall instead of the bottle perched on a dumpster that he had set up before heading to the rooftop. Not speaking of it to Bane had made it less real, and it meant he did not need to see the slight echo of guilt in his eyes.

Bane, who should have never felt guilt for such a thing. Bane was a leader. He was _the_ leader. The kind that Barsad had sought many times beforehand and been disappointed countless times by the corruption found in the ranks. That corruption was nowhere to be seen in Bane. He led with force, with power of mind and body, and the moment Barsad felt that, it was as though the unrest in his head, all of the scattered jigsaw pieces in his mind, had suddenly snapped into place and he was at peace, filled with an instant knowledge and an undeniable truth. The world in his head was as quiet as he knew the world outside of it to be.

He would follow this man.

So he had, into his tent to teach him how to speak to him, feeling an easy familiarity growing in only days. It had only cemented his thoughts. And then into the desert, smiling privately as he felt the closeness between them growing further. It had been second nature to desire him, to long to feel that power washing over his own body, tasting it on his tongue and drawing out low groans and heated breaths. He had told himself that when they were back at the base he would find lubricant, would stretch himself open and treat his leader to the heat and tightness of his body taking him inside that night, then in the morning he would calmly tell him that he would be joining him wherever he would be leaving for, his rifle and pack over his shoulder, ready for command.

It had been the only bitter moment when the shot came. The realization that Bane would not know just how Barsad had intended to follow him, that his sacrifice might only be seen as in the line of duty towards the other leaders when it had not been, it had been only for him, and he would have died happily for that, to have finally felt a true leader over him.

As it was, even in his heart he had known as he did not bleed out from his wound that it would be worse for him, worse than he could ever imagine as he had been surrounded, dragged off. He had been able to see mouths opening to shout orders he could not hear. He had dreamed of it at times, the glint of the hammer in the air, shimmering over his head. He had wished it would strike there instead, bash his brains through and end the agony in his leg. There had been no stoic silence to be held there. He had not been tortured for information. He had been punished, and being silent would have only made things worse. He had screamed out at the red hot fire, the feeling of his fingers splintering inside, his throat had become hoarse from it and darkness had pushed on the edges of his vision as bile rose in his throat and he’d choked on it, as he had felt brutal kicks delivered to him from all sides.

It had not been the worst of it. He had seen the hatred in their eyes as they’d spoken at him, his vision had been too blurry, though, to read their lips, and he had only guessed it was things he did not wish to hear, promises and threats poured out, another scream of torment as thick black tape had been bound around his mangled hands, fingers twisted unnaturally beneath them.

When he had been cast down, they had hung limply by his sides. The rope had been cut several yards from the bottom so that none would attempt to scale it. His body had erupted into a white hot flash of pain as he had jolted onto the ground, starting with his thigh and rushing through his hands. The pit had recognized he was something different. One look at how they had sent him down, and they had known he was to be prey. They acted accordingly. It was a pain and humiliation that sometimes snapped into his vision and haunted his memories, his dreams, their touch, their sick breath on him, the pain from it that mingled with the rest of his body, for his body had truly only become pain at that point. He had crawled off after, barely, holed up, and spent days gnawing the tape from his hands until his mouth and teeth bled and they were finally free. It had helped little.

He had learned to be small, avoided, not worth the effort. Had he been at his full strength when lowered, had he had his hands, his leg, he would have fared better than most in the pit, but crippled he became the creature in the shadows that crawled between cells, scrounging for food, trading items to the doctor in exchange for dubious treatment even as he felt his own body wasting away as he slept with his bare back to the dirt, relying on the vibrations of footsteps to wake him, to warn him if other prisoners were coming to make sport of him again, an easy victim for cowards.

He had seen the lips of other prisoners as he hid under cots, the stories they had told. They had still spoken of Bane often, and Barsad had wondered if perhaps he would see the man again one day. It was a thought that had pushed him on, had made him fight harder through the years, but like any hope, it had dimmed without something to feed it, sustain it until finally in a clearer moment, when fever was not running through him as it so often was, he had told himself what a foolish thought it was. Those who left that place would never come back. It was a finality, then, that he had felt in his soul, emptiness. He had stopped fighting the constant gnaw in his belly, the pain, he had crawled to the doctor's cell, knowing that it was safer than most, and traded the last of what he had stolen so that he could simply lie there, rest in peace.

Seeing Bane again suddenly hovering in his vision long after he had dismissed such a thing as a possibility, it had been akin to seeing an angel of death. In fact, in his haziness, he had accepted it as such, and there had been a sense of relief. He no longer had to fight. It was simply time to rest and let go, and he accepted that, had felt the cold on his face, fuzzy warmth that came with breathing in the precious gift offered to him. It had only been later, when he was in his own senses more, that he had realized he was still alive, pain still in his body and more to come, but he was no longer alone.

It was a beautiful thing to not be alone.

He watched the crowds below. It was a swarm, blue and red, multitudes of insects waiting to devour one another. He felt the time tick away with the rhythm of his heart. There was no one on the rooftop but him. He had picked out where he would meet his end, and yet he was still not alone. He had told Bane of it that very morning, when they had dressed together slowly.

_As much as I wish for it, I will only be a distraction to you were I by your side, Askim._ He had signed out the words reluctantly and he could see how Bane wanted to deny them, wanted him by his side when the fire rose, but they both knew it could not be. He had nodded slowly, instead, and Barsad had sighed at the fleeting feeling of warm palms, larges hands cupping his cheeks and rubbing into his beard with an affection he would not feel again.  
  


_Where will you go?_  
  
  
To the rooftops. I will watch over you as I am meant to. I will be with you still, watching, always.  
  
  
This is to be our goodbye, then.  
  
  
Yes. Your lips. I demand them one last time. 

_  
_He had them, tender against his own for as long as they were able, the sweetest kiss Barsad could ever recall. He felt it across his lips even when the wind and cold chapped them over and he felt warm, ready.

From his scope he saw Bane, descending from the steps of the court as a king, always willing to play the role as needed, and the corner of his lips ticked up, pleased to see him even in the crowd, as he saw his hand wave, clearly an order to open fire on the crowd below.

There was a rumble on the rooftops, it vibrated through his body, and his brain flashed to unpleasant memories, hands grasping at his body and digging into his skin in the dark before he flooded his eyes with sunlight to shake them. There was black before him suddenly, 'the bat'. Bane had told him of all of their former brother's toys; they had confiscated enough of them, and Barsad had been clearly curious enough for Bane to tell him of the ones that could not be found, the bat pod, the bat, and it seemed that one had turned up now. It hovered over the court, and the canons from it made the building under Barsad's body rumble more in protest as sparks sprayed out of one of the confiscated tumblers before it flew off.

Then there was chaos below. Barsad was thankful, not for the first time, that he could hear nothing of the din of it. It was only a distraction, something he had learned from other snipers long ago. Distractions meant missing one's target, and when Barsad could fire, he never missed. He trained his eye on Bane, his finger sliding over the trigger guard, longing to be able to fire with ease, to make his mark and take those out below that dared to even attempt to lay a hand on him.

He was there, then, the bat, the traitor, and Barsad watched him stalk through the streets, as ridiculous in the light of day as he was fearsome in the night. Bane was searching for him, tearing through men in his path, and they raced towards each other. Barsad's jaw clenched as he saw the blows exchanged. Bane had battled with Wayne before. He had told Barsad of it, how he had been a disappointment, easily broken. He did not seem so easily broken now, and Barsad felt a hot flash of jealousy in that, that Wayne could rise out of the pit and be stronger for it when he himself still felt broken.


	13. Chapter 13

He could feel Bane's anger even from the rooftops. If he had not come back, they would be gone from here, all of them, alive, and now since this fool simply could not die, they must do the same in turn. It was an anger that Barsad understood, that he himself felt, but it was a risk. He had seen Bane fight now, had listened to him speak of his style. He was a machine, cold, calculating and brutal until the task was accomplished. This was not that, this was emotions slipping into his movements, and if Barsad could see it from the rooftops then it meant trouble.

 

When the blows became even things, his stomach sank, it lurched further, cold flashing down his spine when he saw the punch to Bane's mask, how he stumbled backwards, his fingers desperate and fumbling. Barsad's legs jerked and he nearly stood then, ready to descend the ladder and throw himself into the fray. Only common sense stilled his body. He would be lost in the scuffle before anything could be done. Their end would be soon, even if Wayne managed to disarm Bane. He watched as Bane was thrown through the court doors, wincing internally even as a part of him warmed with satisfaction; Talia was more than capable of providing the upper hand, of finishing things for them.

 

He wished he could see it, but he knew it would be taken care of, that Bane would be taken care of in their final moments. He had no watch for them, but he did not need it. He had always been perceptive of the passing of time, counting the minutes with the beats of his heart. It was close now. There was a heaviness in the air, blood from the streets below thick enough that the scent reached his nose as gunpowder mingled with it in his nostrils. He could taste it on his tongue, and it seemed fitting, to be his last taste, for it to coat his mouth as he could still feel the tingle on Bane's lips on his own.

 

It would end, then. Wayne would be in their hold, and Talia would press the trigger in front of his eyes. Barsad could envision it clearly, and he considered for a moment simply lying out on his back for it, looking up at the sky as the fire rose around them, but he had promised to watch over Bane and he would do so. His eyes stayed locked on the building and its surroundings, the fighting below. It was tapering off, bodies already turning cold and stiff were piled on the concrete, and those straggling behind would be joining them soon enough.

 

His gaze shifted suddenly back to the doors, his brow furrowing. Talia, she was marching out of the courtroom, her face stoic as she was flanked by men of the league. Bane was not with her, and Barsad did not know what that could possibly mean, why she would be stepping into the tumbler if all was going according to plan. Where was Bane? Had they failed? Could such a thing be so? Was Bane alone? Alive? So many questions were rushing through his mind, making an anxiousness vibrate through him that he could not control. Bane could not be dead, even if something had gone wrong, Bane simply could not be dead. That meant that he was in the courthouse, still, and that meant that Barsad was needed to watch over him, still. If something was wrong with the bomb, then it was out of his hands, and Talia would be needed. This was something he could do.

 

Even if he had never felt more helpless doing it.

 

There was a streak of black suddenly, and it plowed through a pile of bodies with little remorse, strewing them out into the streets and making others look on in shock, unsure if they should be aiming or running. It took a moment for Barsad to realize what he was seeing. The other piece of missing tech, the bat pod, sleek, deadly in the proper hands from what Bane had told him, canons on it that could blast through metal, concrete. It had mildly frustrated Bane that it had not been found. Barsad had teased him that he only wished it for a joy ride.

 

Now it could certainly not be someone friendly to the cause on the vehicle, not how it rolled up to the courthouse. He thought of Bane inside, Bane who must be alive, and he saw how the figure on the bike slid down lower, their shoulders hunching, aiming...

 

In the end, it was easy. All of his instincts snapping back into place with a slow, even exhale of his breath. A shock of pain ran through his hand, as though it was breaking all over again, racing up through his arm, down his entire body until he could feel it through his toes. The recoil of the rifle snapped through him before he was even aware that he had pulled the trigger. The figure dropped from the bat pod. Her face was exposed now, young, sleek, blood red lipstick streaked with the real thing as her hair fanned out onto the dirty concrete.

 

An explosion rocked through the building regardless, a last press of her fingers even when the bullet sailed through her heart. The aim had been wide, though, the jerk of her body shifting the cannon’s trajectory entirely, hitting the corner of the building instead and blasting a hole through it. It was a wonder the entire thing had not collapsed with it.

 

He pulled his eye from the scope and took a shaky breath. A fine tremor ran through his body and his hands still ached terribly, but there was a buzz of elation running through his body, short-lived. He should stay, but now with his head spinning and his body hurting, with the end so close, he only wanted to see Bane. Surely he could not be faulted for that, to simply see him, to be certain that he was alive, still, after the hit, and that it had not taken him before their time.

 

Hit boots clanged down the metal rungs of the ladder, his arms curled around it, the soft flesh of his inner elbow bitten into by the metal to descend instead of relying on his hands. It was slow, but it did the job.

 

There was a sudden rush of air ran through his hair, and his body was for a moment eclipsed in shadow. The Bat was back in the air, racing off. Barsad clenched his jaw, wondering what this meant, suspecting where it might go. He let go of the rungs, dropping down from the ladder the last few feet and feeling the sharp disapproval of the action cut like a knife into his thigh. He berated his body; it only had to last a few minutes more.

 

Everything he had was put into a run, and the world blurred around him, streaked past his vision. A bullet nicked his ear. The blood was a warm, sticky trickle down his neck, leaking into the tattered, filthy scarf he had chosen to wear on this day. He barely felt it as he slammed his elbow into a man who came at him with a knife. When his coat was grabbed up, he tore his body away from it, leaving it behind in the cold.

 

His feet skated over rubble, pebbles kicked up everywhere and concrete dust was still thick in the air. He held his arm in front of his face, breathing through his sleeve as he stepped through it, peered out of the gaping hole and scanned the open courtroom for Bane, blurred shapes slowly taking form in front of him until he saw a figure sprawled out, prone, on the ground. He pitched forward, his ankle catching on a block of cinder, and he nearly fell onto Bane, hands touching his shoulders in concern. There was the smell of smoke close to him, and his left side looked as though it had been burned, clothing partly consumed by flame. He was alive, though, his chest working, his eyes opening slowly, disoriented.

 

Barsad choked at the sudden grasp to his throat, fingers scrabbling to fight against Bane's hold by instinct, even knowing how futile such a thing was. He made himself go limp, instead, and the sudden submission seemed to startle Bane enough to bring him out of his daze, his grip loosening in realization, the barest of strokes over his throat before Bane was pushing himself up to stand, body tense as he scanned the room and realized Wayne was no longer with them.

 

“He went to stop her,” Barsad guessed easily enough.

 

Bane's hands clenched, frustrated with himself before he answered. _He escaped in the distraction of the blast; rubble hit us._

_Can he stop her?  
  
_ Bane shook his head curtly. _No. There is no way for the bomb to be stopped. I simply wished to be the one to end him._

_He hurt you._ Barsad reached to touch the mask gently. It looked put back together now, but he could only imagine the panic that must have run through Bane when it had been smashed open.

 

_It is nothing. The blast was far more destructive. It nearly hit me directly._

 

A slow grin began to spread of Barsad's features. He could not help it.  He was too sure that the blast had not hit Bane directly because he had fired his own weapon, taken back what had been stolen from him so long ago, and that in turn had allowed them these few final moments together. What a wonderful thing, a reward of sorts given by fate who was usually so cruel. He shook his head when Bane's eyebrows knitted together, not understanding why he looked so pleased.

 

_It is nothing. Sit with me? Watch?_ His hand went to Bane's unburned arm. In ordinary circumstances, he would try to bandage him, find him a doctor, the burns must be causing pain, but it was a pointless waste of time now. Bane lowered himself to sit on the broken concrete, instead, and Barsad went down with him, greedy enough to settle on his lap, rest his head against his shoulder and look out of the rubble into the sky. He felt Bane's hand touch his own and he was determined to hold it. He laced their fingers together slowly, his own hand being squeezed tenderly by Bane’s, feeling the gentle sensation of his breath puffing out through his mask and across the back of his neck, his warmth when the air was bitter and cold. It was a perfect way to die, and now they only waited to see it together.

 

What they saw instead made Barsad freeze, filling with sick dread. The Bat again, off in the distance, crashing through buildings. A desperate attempt to escape Gotham's fate? No, it did not seem like it could be. He was suddenly crushed in Bane's grip, cold tension traveling from Bane's skin and into his own. It was out of sight then, traveling towards the bay of the city, surely it could not... He tried to count the beats of time. He had lost track in the chaos. Was it time?

 

Bane jerked up suddenly with him, nearly dumping him onto the floor, were it not for his arm still around him.  
  


“Bane?” He asked it cautiously, trying to take his focus back on him. It worked for a moment before Bane's head snapped up again and Barsad turned to look with him. In the far distance, blocked by buildings and nearly out of view, there was an unmistakable cloud formation in the sky, rising out of what must be the bay.

 

Bane was speaking. Barsad could see it in how his throat moved, in the silent horror on his face. He did not need to hear him to be able to understand. He felt it himself, his own sense of loss over this being stolen from them. It left them both stunned for long moments, watching the cloud settle. There had been no thought of what to do if they failed. Failure had been an impossibility.

 

He touched Bane's shoulder suddenly. “Talia.”


	14. Chapter 14

The word made Bane nearly jolt back to life, breaking the spell defeat had cast over them. So much of Bane's army was lying dead in the streets. Barsad knew that for Bane's sake they needed to find Talia, make sure she was safe. He walked stiffly out of the courthouse; it was near empty of life. Not completely, though. He saw one or two in the scarves Barsad had known depicted brotherhood to Bane. They were injured, but still standing. Their eyes had been drawn to the blast, as well, and they looked almost lost.

Bane spoke as his hands moved for Barsad. A task, a mission, it had made his mind settle, focus. _Wayne would have attempted to drive her towards the waterfront, to stabilize the core. That is where we much search._ The same spell that had been put over the men was broken, and they disappeared as if they had never been there to begin with, only shadows.

“We cannot go on foot.” Barsad scanned the streets, giving the batpod a brief longing glance. He certainly would be mad to attempt to steer it with his hands. He ran with Bane to one of the bikes, instead. They had been kept hidden away after the attack on the stock market. Barsad had obviously not been there at the time, but Bane had mentioned them. Now Barsad worried that Bane would not be able to steer with the burns running up his arm.

He did not seem to even feel them, though, tossing off a piece of metal siding used to disguise one as nothing but rubbish. He straddled the seat, and Barsad climbed onto the back, wrapped around him as tightly as he dared as the bike roared to life, the vibrations running through his very core as Bane ripped out of the alley. The streets were empty save for debris, Gothamites having either evacuated or boarded themselves up in their homes to keep shut away from the world. Bane zigzagged through the rubble and snow, a dangerous skid making Barsad's heart jump, his entire body feeling frozen as they followed the trail of the tumblers, the carnage left behind.

Barsad felt Bane's entire body tense under his hold when they came to the decimated guardrail leading down to the tunnels below. Speeding up to it, they could see the truck, broken apart, twisted metal and broken glass scattered around on the ground below them. Bane nearly skidded down there himself, but Barsad jerked his body weight to the side so that the bike careened away from the open hole. He pointed instead to an access area that would take them down to it.

The bike sputtered under them, and Bane was frozen on it. They could both see the still figure in the front, the door beside it opened wide. There were graceful fingers dangling down, just visible beneath it. Barsad could think of no encouraging words to say, they died out on his tongue, and so he stood instead, his chest pounding as he slowly made his way towards the truck, unsure if Bane was following, not daring to glance back.

Her body was twisted strangely, an angle that reminded him of how his hands were once warped, out of place, mangled, and he closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders slumping. He barely knew her and yet he felt Bane's grief already welling up in his own body as he reached out to gently touch her cheek.

His breath drawled in sharply at the sudden press of cool metal to his forehead. Wild, pain-riddled eyes were opened, staring at him as he saw her breath rise and fall in her chest. He could not imagine that each one was not an agony. He did not dare move as he stared down the barrel of the gun, not knowing how coherent she was, if he was even recognized now.

A shadow fell over them both, and Talia's eyes were drawn upward. The gun against his skin was shaking and it lowered suddenly, Barsad catching it up before it clattered to the ground. Her lips trembled but he could read them.

“You should not have come for me. It is dangerous.”

  
He did not have to hear Bane's rebuttal. He was already shifting away from them. Bane took her hand as gently as if he were holding a butterfly between his palms. His gray eyes looked liquid, wetness clumping his lashes. Barsad knew he must think for all of them in that moment. She was alive, but it was unclear just how injured she was, if she would last much longer without medical treatment of some kind. They could not move her on the motorcycle, though; such an idea would be folly. The truck itself was shot to hell, not a chance of their getting it running again.

  
Barsad scanned the tunnels and stilled. They were no longer alone. There was another truck coming towards them, an old, black pickup truck, the flatbed tarp frayed and flapping slightly in the wind at one end, the lights flashing at them before it began to slow to a stop. He lifted the gun, prepared to fire and face further pain until he saw the faces through the window, the men they had sent off earlier. Relief washed over him, brief, but there was at least a chance, now. He let the gun drop, tucking it into his waistband as he ran up to them.

  
“She is in the truck. We must move her carefully. She needs a doctor.”  
  
  
The man at the wheel shook his head slowly, his dark hands gripping the steering as he looked past him towards the truck, the worry written on his face. “We've lost contact with everyone. There is nowhere safe to take her in the city.”

“Then we must take her _out._ ” There would be chaos, now, Barsad was sure of it, a mass exodus as those who narrowly escaped their fate fled the city. They would have to make their move now or the opportunity would be missed. “Get her into the truck, the back.”

He knew that he was in no position to give orders, he was not even one of the men, but still he found them being followed. The man stepped out of the truck, flanked by the other as they moved toward Talia and Bane. Bane wanted her touched by neither of them, and Barsad could not hear what he was saying, but his hand gripped her more, his body tense, dangerous, as the man who was driving put a hand to his arm.

“We will be gentle, brother. We will keep her safe,” he promised, and Barsad took Bane's good arm, pulling him away carefully so that they could work. They used a piece of siding that had fallen from the truck, laying her out on it to keep her back as still as possible while they moved her to the pickup. Barsad shook his head quickly and went to them when they began to put her into the front.

“No, no, in the truck bed. We do not know if her cover has been blown.”

“Who would know?” the one man argued, and Barsad glared up at him, briefly annoyed at how he towered nearly as tall as Bane over him.

“Look at the tracks; other cars have been down here recently. Wayne could have had others chasing after her, as well. We cannot risk it. You must all be in the back. You might have all been seen during the footage.

“And what of you?”

Barsad shook his head. “I was at the courts, yes, but I never spoke to anyone, never gave an order, was always behind Bane. My face is not known. I will lead us out.” He could not afford to be argued with, there was no time, and thankfully the men knew it. He went to Bane who had not been listening, who had instead been watching with trepidation as Talia was reverently lowered into the uncovered truck bed.

  
_Go with her. I will take us from here. I need to know where to go, though. Where outside of the city will be safe?_

_  
_Bane closed his eyes in thought for a moment before answering. _A safe house; it was where we were to go for evacuation. Others will be there._ He gave careful directions for it, and Barsad climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck alone. He looked frightful in the rear view mirror, blood speckling his clothes, his hair wild. Who would not, though? Everyone exiting the city would no doubt look the same, and he took only a moment to clean away the most obvious splotches of blood on him, finding an old jacket in the truck and tossing it on to cover the rest.

He drove carefully, his hands aching as he held onto the steering wheel, but it could not be helped. He let the truck slide into a line of cars, buses, and other trucks, all heading through the tunnel and out of the city. Not bad, he thought, for having never driven a truck before. He made himself breathe steadily as his eyes went to the mirror. The tarp covered them all in the back, and he must only blend in. The line was barely moving, though, and as the truck crept forward, he realized why.

There were few police left inside the city... but outside was another story, and they had already set up a checkpoint. It was not a full-out search, and he saw trucks and RVs alike passing through it without being uncovered or stepped into. There were too many people eager to escape; to investigate every single vehicle would cause a riot, but each driver was undergoing a quick scrutiny. He could see the officers’ mouths moving as he drew closer.

  
_What is your name? Is there anyone else in the vehicle with you? Where are you heading?_ Names were jotted down quickly on a tablet. What made Barsad's heart beat heavily enough for him to feel in his ears, though, were the random cars pulled aside, how every so often a truck was being asked to pull to the side for a more thorough exam, seemingly at random, or perhaps the drivers were not passing scrutiny.

  
He needed to pass scrutiny. So much depended on it.

  
His hand fumbled as he rolled up to the checkpoint, slipping over the old window crank and slowly working it down. The man was impatient, ticking his eyes up at him and then back down to the clipboard. The angle of his hat and the height of the truck meaning his face was blocked off completely.

 

Breathe.

 

He leaned outside of the window and looked down.

  
“You'll have to look at my face so I can read your lips; I'm deaf.” He let his words sound thicker, hoping it would cover his accent as he drummed his fingers impatiently against the metal siding of the truck. The man snapped his head up in surprise, having been clearly thrown for a loop with the strange occurrence.

  
“I'm—sorry.” He said the words slowly, and Barsad barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

  
“The questions?” he prompted instead, trying to shift the balance of power, assert himself as the one in control of the situation.

  
“Right.” He went through them, painfully slowly, but it gave Barsad time to rattle off a fake name, fake locations, fake everything. The man waved him on quickly, seemingly glad to be rid the uncomfortable situation. Barsad was well used to it, happy it had been an advantage in this instance, and turned his focus back to the road to watch the cars around him, threading through them as quickly and carefully as possible, location set in his mind as the city disappeared behind them all in a blur. He began to finally breathe again when the population became less dense, when the apartments became houses that became slowly more and more spread out until he was pulling up to an old rundown one. It looked nearly a shack, but it was private, surrounded by trees and far off the main roads.  
  
  
He finally stopped the truck, then, hopping out after only a moment to check on them. Bane was nearly wrapped around Talia in the cramped quarters, his eyes closed as he held her carefully. The other men hopped out of the truck quickly, a swift stretch before they were drawing their weapons, clearing the small house and waving them in.  
  
  
The man from the truck touched his shoulder, snapping his attention from Bane to him.  
  
“What now?"  
  
Barsad stared for a moment, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.  “I am not one of you. I only—”

  
The man cut him off with a wave of his hand into the air. “You have been by his side since you came. I saw him draw you out of the pit in his arms, and since then you have been his shadow. No one knows what he will want now better than you.”

  
It was hard to argue. Barsad did not know what to say to such a thing. He opened his mouth then snapped it shut, nodding tightly as he thought. “Have the healer list what they need. Send those least likely to be recognized out to obtain what can be, have others gather food. I suspect that he will wish to return to your home, and we must work to arrange that.”

  
The man only nodded before clasping his shoulder. “Kojo. It is good to meet you, brother, even though the timing is poor. I will see Bane's wishes carried out.”  
  
  
Barsad was left standing in the hall, surprised. He wished only to go up to the attic, to be with Bane, his worry extending to Talia, as well. He did not think Bane could survive losing her now, not when so much had failed. Instead, he found himself making a round through the house, taking stock of how many men were there, their supplies, food, ammunition, blankets. He made mental notes of everything from the injuries to how many would logically fit in one room for rest. He suspected they would only be there for that night. The house was too small for much else.

  
He finally made his way to the ladder leading up to the attic when the sky was dark and a sort of stillness had filled the house, the men taking shifts guarding and resting. He carried an extra blanket he’d found up to them. Bane was sitting on the bare floorboards, his body reclining against the slanted roof as Talia was laid out beside him, an IV carefully set into her arm. Bane's eyes went to him, and he sat down without a word beside him, laying the blanket out over their laps. They said nothing at first, instead looking up together through a thin crack in the roof and ceiling towards the stars. Bane finally touched his side to get his attention.   
  
_I do not know what to feel,_ he confessed in silence, Talia's head in his lap. _We have failed, but we are alive. Gotham stands, but the Bat has been destroyed. We are neither victorious nor in a complete state of defeat._  
  
  
You feel lost.  
  
  
Bane cast his gaze down at Talia, his fingers stroking over her cheek. She sighed quietly, her own graceful fingers gripping onto the soft hem of Bane's shirt. He looked to him then, his thumb touching over Barsad’s lip before he answered.

  
_Not completely lost. Merely... adrift.  
  
  
We will find our way again, _Barsad promised. He knew what it was to drift. They all did. _I will not let you float away from us._  
  
  
Bane's brows knitted together for a moment, and then a sigh took him. Barsad could see how it moved his chest. He was surprised when his head suddenly went to his shoulder, resting, needing a reprieve.

_  
Sleep. I will watch over us.  
  
  
_ Bane hesitated. _I have heard your voice traveling through the hall all day. Thank you...  
  
  
It is nothing, rest.  
  
  
_Bane looked tired then, nodding slowly. _How is it… that suddenly you are watching over me, instead?_  
  
  
It is because you have made me strong enough again to do so. Sleep, Askim. Let me carry us both, for now.  
  
  
He felt Bane's breathing turn heavier, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelashes as sleep claimed him. It was something he had always enjoyed, how Bane looked so different in sleep. Now, though, he still seemed uneasy. Barsad made their fingers meet, touching the tips of them together before he stroked over his palm. When Talia made a pained noise while she slept, he took it upon himself to stroke her hair until it passed. It was them, now, against a new world, and this small family felt broken. But Bane had taught him long ago that broken things can mend, and Barsad was certain that they would, that new purpose would be given to them soon enough.


End file.
